


Coming Home

by charlesdk



Series: Home Is Where You Are (Farmer 'verse) [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Dogs, Gay Bucky Barnes, M/M, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Minor Peggy Carter/Angie Martinelli, POV Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Recovery, Service Dogs, Sexual Content, Sharing Clothes, Steve has a beard, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, serum being puberty and military training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-22 23:15:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9629429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlesdk/pseuds/charlesdk
Summary: “Steve, you don't know a damn thing about that guy. The fact that you're even considering keeping him in your house is crazy.”“I don't care.” Steve glanced over at the stranger, his face softening when he saw him sinking back into the couch cushions and gripping his backpack so tightly. “Sam, the guy looks like no one's been nice to him for years. How am I supposed to be okay with just sending him off somewhere?”Sam sighed heavily and looked heavenward. “I swear to God, if I come by tomorrow and find you dead in your bed, I'm gonna find a way to bring you back to life just to kill you again.”OR – in which former army captain, current farmer Steve Rogers finds a bruised and battered and dirty stranger who remembers nothing and doesn't speak in his barn. He takes him in, despite his friends' advice not to, and helps him recover. It's not easy. Especially not when, along the way, feelings get involved.





	1. FOUND

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to the always amazing [Elisa](http://atticuos.tumblr.com/) for cheerreading this whole thing and for helping me with the title and just for everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover over the text for translations. If you're on a mobile device, translations will be in the end notes.

_**day one** _

 

Every morning for the past many, many years, Steve had been woken up by the loud and, frankly speaking, annoying shrill of the alarm clock that stood placed on the bedside table to the left of his bed. It was the kind of alarm clock that's old timey; vintage and retro and rusty in the way those kind of clocks could only be in this day and age. People just didn't make them anymore, these twin bell clocks, nor did they buy them.

Steve, though – Steve owned one, and he had been using it since he dug it out of the box of his mother's belongings that he had rediscovered when he moved into this house. And every morning at five am on the dot, the clock would start ringing that loud and jolting noise.

Every morning at five am, the clock would shake and rumble as the ringing filled the whole room, and Steve would jolt awake with a sharp intake of breath, unless his internal clock had already woken him up by then.

That wasn't what woke Steve up this particular morning, however.

No, what did wake him up was a rough tongue licking at his cheek, a wet snout pressing against his ear, a familiar whining and a soft barking (just a small _boof_ every now and then, a _boof_ that was more of a huff than anything remotely close to a bark) and a pair of paws pressing down on his chest, shifting and poking at him, urging him to wake up.

Steve blinked a few times as he slowly climbed out of his (for once) deep sleep, brows slowly furrowing while he breathed in. And when Daisy nudged against him with her snout again and his brain finally registered it properly, he jolted awake and sat up.

Daisy was his service dog, a five year old doberman that got her name from being born in a field of daisies, and she didn't usually wake him up before his alarm clock rang or before he got up by himself. Not unless he had been having a nightmare, which was why his heartbeat had already picked up and he was starting to panic a little, body reacting before his brain had even fully woken up.

He blinked and blinked while his eyes got used to the dim lit room he was in, his chest heaving as he breathed deeply and rapidly. With a shaky hand, he instinctively reached out for Daisy, who was there in the blink of an eye, pressing her head to the palm of his hand to anchor and comfort him.

It took him a minute, but eventually Steve calmed down. And that was when he frowned in confusion, because he didn't remember having a nightmare. He didn't remember the same horrible, terrible nightmares that had been torturing him for the past several years.

Confused, he looked down at where Daisy was looking back at him, ears down and eyes big. “Hey,” he whispered softly, voice rough with disuse and sleep and from the excessive breathing he'd just done. “Hey, why'd you wake me, huh? What's wrong?”

Daisy whined and shifted against him, nudging him. Steve looked at her for a moment with a frown, but only a second passed before he realized why she had woken him up.

Barking. A distant but familiar barking coming from outside, and Steve flew out of his bed the second he heard it.

As he rushed out the bedroom, down the stairs, and toward the front door (it was wide open, and he was certain he had closed and locked it the night before, just like he did every other night), he stepped into his boots, grabbed the first shirt he saw, and picked up the unloaded shotgun he kept locked up in the closet under the stairs.

The shotgun had never been loaded, the ammunition kept locked away separately. It hadn't been loaded since Steve retired from the army, and it was going to stay that way. No matter what had started the barking.

Daisy was right behind him like the trusted service dog she was, when Steve stormed out of the front door and off the porch in only a handful of marching strides, gun clutched in his hands and jaw set tight.

The sun hadn't even fully risen on the sky yet, he realized as he fast walked around the corner of the house and down the trail that lead to the barn; the barn where the barking and growling was coming from, the doors wide open. He took in a deep, deep breath to calm himself as he headed toward it, his heart hammering in his chest and his mind carefully blank.

The first thing Steve saw when he stepped into the barn, Daisy on his six, was his farm dog; an anatolian shepherd named Atticus. He was standing by one of the last stalls in the barn, the one Steve used for hay and various tools that didn't fit in his shed. It was one of the only stalls that weren't occupied by the cows currently mooing to each side of him, and Steve ignored the rapid heartbeat in his own ears as he headed toward him.

Atticus glanced his way at the sound of footsteps and stopped barking immediately at the sight of him. But the moment he looked back into the stall, he started growling, his ears turned downward flat against his head. Steve raised the shotgun and carefully stepped closer, Daisy trailing up beside him.

When he rounded the corner and finally saw what all the ruckus was about, Steve couldn't help but let out a quiet breath as his heart seemed to calm down a little and his jaw unclenched, his grip on the shotgun that was raised and held out in front of him loosening just slightly.

A man was cowered into the far left corner of the stall. His legs were drawn up to his chest, arms hidden between his thighs and his torso. His hair was dark and long, covering his features, and his face was dirty with what looked like dirt and mud. His pale eyes were only just poking out from below his low and furrowed brows.

A backpack was resting against his side, looking awfully thin, and he was wearing clothes that looked well-worn and in need of a long and careful wash and boots that were as full of dirt and mud as his face was – maybe even more than.

The guy looked like a hobo, Steve realized. If he was harmless, he didn't know, but when Steve pointed the shotgun at him in a threat, the guy tensed and slowly raised his hands from behind his legs in surrender. A glint of something shiny caught Steve's eyes.

The guy's left hand looked to be made entirely of metal. It could be a prosthetic, but it moved just like the guy's right hand; moved exactly like a real, flesh and bone hand. If the guy really was as much of a hobo as he looked to be, that was one hell of an expensive looking prosthetic to be carrying around.

It didn't explain why the guy was there, either. Steve figured he just needed shelter for the night, since he'd heard from fellow farmers that hobos liked to take shelter in their barns. But it didn't rain the night before and it was near the end of summer and Steve's farm was out in the middle of nowhere, forty-nine minutes by car away from civilization.

That was a long way to go just for shelter.

It looked like all his cows were still there – Steve had counted them as he had walked over – so not a thief. Steve didn't trust easy, never had, but he found himself lowering the gun and putting it down regardless, resting it against the side of the stall as he stepped forward carefully, eyes locked onto the stranger and guards kept up despite his weapon being put down.

“Atticus,” he said firmly, and Atticus stopped growling and sat down obediently a moment later. “Daisy, my six,” he continued in a mutter, and Daisy came up right behind him as he crouched down a few feet from where the stranger was pressing himself even further against the side of the stall.

The stranger was watching him as carefully as Steve was watching him, pale eyes glued to him and watching his every little move. Apparently he wasn't bothered by the dogs, not even Atticus. Atticus was a large dog, seven years old and fully grown, and yet the stranger hadn't shown any sign of fear.

“Hey,” Steve said, his voice softened a little. He made sure to stay those few feet away from the stranger, didn't want to invade his personal space. One would think that was ridiculous, considering the guy broke into his barn, but Steve didn't care. “Who are you?”

His question was met with silence, the stranger shifting uncomfortably and his eyes flickering across Steve's face. There seemed to be a permanent frown stuck to his lips, stare hard and guarded. The question went unanswered.

“You don't speak English?” Steve guessed after a minute of silence passed. “Um okay... what about French?” He paused. His own French was rusty, hadn't been used since he last spoke with Dernier's wife which was several months ago. “Uh, parlez-vous français?”

The stranger's frown deepened, and Steve's question was, once again, met with silence and a blank and hard stare.

“Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” Steve tried after another moment.

The stranger made a face but remained silent, nothing changing.

Steve sighed and scratched his neck, thinking, before he asked, “An labhraíonn tú Gaeilge?” It was a long shot, but worth it nonetheless. At least that he could speak, although, like his French, it was rusty after a while of disuse.

But again, his words were met with silence. The stranger just stared at him, his facial expression never changing and his stare continued to be blank and guarded, fixed on Steve.

“Do you speak anything at all?” Steve asked, desperate now. “Are you mute? Do you,” he brought up his hands and started signing slowly and carefully as he asked, “do you sign?”

Steve was about ready to give up when the stranger continued to just stare at him in silence. But then, ever so slightly, the stranger shook his head. Just a little movement from one side to the other, his eyes never leaving Steve's face and his frown staying firmly in place where it had been.

It wasn't much, but it was a start.

“Do you understand me?” Steve asked, slowly pulling himself back up to stand, his knees hurting from staying crouched down for too long. Daisy followed from where she had sat down right beside him, having his back like always.

A nod answered the question, a quick and slight movement but it was there, and Steve took a careful step forward. Only to have the stranger jerk back and his eyes going wide with the first sign of fear. Steve held up his empty hands and stopped walking.

“I'm not gonna hurt you,” he promised. “I'm unarmed. You see that?” He motioned over to where he had left the shotgun leaning against the side of the stall. “Only weapon I've got, I swear.” He paused, then lightheartedly added, “Except for my fists and the dogs.”

The stranger blinked up at him, then scowled and stayed where he was, metal hand now clenched into a fist and resting on his left knee. The plates were shifting, and Steve tried not to stare – although it was hard not to, because it was quite fascinating to look at. But rude to stare, he had to remind himself.

“Alright, no jokes,” said Steve, slightly disappointed that his attempt at lightening the mood or getting any sort of emotion from this stranger that wasn't fear or anger had failed. “Got it.”

Atticus was slowly and carefully stepping forward now, Steve noticed when he came walking up beside Daisy, who was standing obediently by Steve's side with her full attention on the stranger. The stranger noticed him too, apparently, because his eyes flickered from Steve's face to the dog curiously sniffing in his direction. But Steve was quick to hold out a hand, silently telling Atticus to stay put.

The guy was harmless. He was just scared, and Steve wasn't going to make him more afraid.

“Can I come closer?” he asked, looking back at the stranger.

The stranger looked at him warily for a calculating moment, before he gave a silent and quick nod, and Steve slowly stepped forward. He stopped maybe a step or two from him and crouched back down, eyeing him carefully.

The dirt, he realized, maybe wasn't all dirt after all. It looked more like war paint that had been smudged all over his face, more around his eyes than the lower part of his face. The paint looked to be mixed with mud and dirt, and there were chunks of red in there too. Steve didn't need to get a closer look to know the red was blood.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, carefully reaching a hand out. Only to quickly retract it, when the stranger jerked back again, the metal hand whirring quietly as it clenched. Steve held up his hands and leaned back. “I'm sorry, I won't touch you. Can you tell me if you're hurt?”

The stranger said nothing, so Steve decided to move on and said, “I've got a phone in my house. You can use it to call someone, if you want.” A pause, then he frowned. Maybe the guy really couldn't talk. “Is there someone I can call for you? Family, maybe? A friend?”

The guy just stared at him, face unchanged and stoic and guarded. Steve was almost certain he saw the guy's jaw clench just a little, but it was such a small and quick movement and the long and brown hair was covering most of his jaw, so Steve was probably just imagining things.

“Okay, well,” Steve started with a slight nod. “I've got a shower you can use, if you want. You could probably need it. Some food too, maybe some clean clothes?” He offered the stranger a crooked smile he hoped was friendly enough. “I'm not gonna hurt you, I swear. Cross my heart.”

The stranger stayed silent, staring at Steve. Then quickly and pointedly, his eyes shot to the side, and Steve followed his gaze. Atticus was still standing there, watching the stranger with his ears now perked and tail raised, almost like he was watching one of the farm animals.

“Atticus won't hurt you,” Steve said, looking back at the stranger. “He's just here to protect the farm and if you're not a danger to it, then all he'll want is some head rubs and belly scratches.”

As if on cue, Atticus' mouth dropped open and his tongue lolled out, his tail wagging wildly. Apparently he had decided the stranger wasn't dangerous or a threat, which settled the worry in the pit of Steve's stomach. He trusted Atticus' judgment more than his own, after all.

“See?” Steve offered the stranger a smile, when he looked back at him. “He ain't gonna hurt you.”

The stranger continued to stare at him, face still hard but softer now. He shot a pointed look to where Daisy was standing next to Steve, and, without looking away, Steve said, “Daisy's here to protect me. She won't hurt you, unless you hurt me.”

There was a prolonged pause, but then slowly, the stranger stood up and wrapped his metal hand around the backpack, picking it up as he stood. The guy was about as tall as Steve was, maybe an inch or two shorter, but he was hunched in on himself, shoulders sagged but tense and head ducked down, which made him look much shorter.

By the time they made it out of the barn, the sun was almost all the way up, the sky going a soft orange, and Steve could hear his rooster, Redwing, welcome the morning in the distance. This would be about the time he'd be getting out of bed too, so he hadn't missed that much sleep.

Daisy stayed right next to him, plastered to his side, during the whole walk back to the house, while the stranger walked a few feet behind him. Steve would feel uneasy with that, not having an eye on him, if it wasn't for Atticus walking behind all of them, watching them like a guard dog.

Back inside the house, Steve quickly went and locked the shotgun back in its locker under the stairs, and then returned to the living room where the stranger was standing, looking so out of place and awkward there that it almost made Steve snort. He was clutching his backpack to his chest, hanging onto it like a lifeline, and his eyes immediately snapped over to Steve the moment he stepped into the room.

Atticus was sitting by the couch, and Daisy stayed glued to Steve.

“Shower's in there,” Steve said, pointing toward the guest bathroom that was just down the hall, “if you want it.”

The stranger said nothing, stayed silent, and just slowly sunk down onto the couch, placing his backpack in his lap. Never once did he take his eyes off of Steve, and Steve shifted awkwardly under his intense gaze.

“Okay.” Steve scratched his cheek, roughing up his beard a little, then nodded. “I'm gonna get you something to wash your face with, then.”

He couldn't have been gone for more than one minute, and when he returned to the living room, a wet washcloth in hand, Atticus was sitting with his head on the cushion next to the stranger, tail wagging across the floor and thumping against the coffee table's leg. His ears were perked and his eyes were pleading and firmly on the stranger, but the guy just stared back and didn't give him the petting that Atticus was clearly begging for.

“He won't bite if you pet him,” Steve said, offering the guy a quick smile when his eyes snapped to him. He lifted the washcloth momentarily and stepped over. “Can you clean your face yourself, or do you want me to do it for you?”

The guy looked at him, glanced pointedly at the cloth, then looked back at him. Steve could take a hint, so he nodded and stepped over toward him. “Close your eyes,” he said softly, moving between his closed legs and the coffee table in front of him.

The guy instantly startled back, face going hard all over again.

“I'm not gonna hurt you,” Steve quickly promised, holding his hands back and up. “I've got no weapons, I just wanna get you clean. Don't wanna get water in your eyes, that's all.”

A hesitating shift, and then the guy slowly closed his eyes and tilted his head back just a little. The frown was still stuck in place, the corners of his lips tugged downward, and his brows were furrowed and lowered.

Steve carefully reached out and brushed away the strands of hair that fell over the guy's face. It really needed a wash, he mentally noted as the hair slowly fell from his face. The guy was tense as Steve continued to clear his face of his hair, and he flinched when Steve brushed against what was undoubtedly a bump on his head.

“Sorry,” Steve immediately apologized, pulling his hands back.

The bump was pretty big, looked fresh too. Steve guessed that when the dirt and mud and dried blood was washed off of this guy's face, there would be scrapes and bruises all around, and Steve's heart sank a little at the thought.

“I'll be careful,” Steve promised. Gently, he put the wet washcloth to the stranger's face and cleaned it, slowly revealing the tan skin underneath the dirt. Just like he had thought, there were cuts and bruises and scrapes as well as the pretty impressive bump, and Steve frowned at it.

It looked like the guy had been in a fight recently, a fight with either some stairs or a whole group of people. Whatever it was that had caused this amount of injuries, it couldn't have been good. None of it had been treated in any way either, and all of it definitely needed to.

After a while, the dirt and mud and dried blood and war paint was as gone as it could get, and Steve pulled the washcloth back and took a proper look at the guy he had brought into his house.

His jaw was sharp, thick and dark stubble running along it and framing a pair of plush lips that were stretched into a thin line, a slight frown. Dark circles hang low under his eyes, his eyes bright and pale and piercingly blue when they blinked open and looked back at him. His brows were low and furrowed, shadowing over his eyes, and his cheekbones were sharp. His face was thin, like he hadn't eaten in a while.

He was shockingly beautiful, Steve realized as he continued. Despite the slight dirt that still covered parts of him, he was definitely a looker.

And way too young to have been put through whatever hell he had been put through. He couldn't be more than twenty-eight. Twenty-seven, maybe.

Steve cleared his throat and tore his gaze away, when he realized they had been staring at each other for far too long. He put on a little smile, waved the now dirty washcloth, and said, “That's as clean as you're gonna get with just this. You're still welcome to use my shower, if you want.”

The guy didn't move, didn't say anything, so Steve nodded and stepped away. “I'll make you something to eat,” he said. “Just gotta make a quick call to a friend of mine.”

That, apparently, got a reaction from the guy. He tensed up in a split second and his left hand shot out for his backpack. He looked more than ready to bail out of there, his eyes wide with fear.

“It's okay,” Steve reassured him calmly. “Sam's a great guy. You'll like him. Plus, he's way better at treating wounds than I am,” God knows Sam had treated plenty of Steve's wounds in the past, so Steve would know, “so you'll want him to take a look at those.”

Slowly, the stranger sunk back into the couch cushions. Atticus hadn't moved from his spot, still looking at him with pleading eyes, and Steve smiled a little when the guy slowly pushed his left hand toward the dog.

Steve stepped away and found his phone where it had been put to charge over night in the kitchen. The cell reception out there was surprisingly good for being in the middle of nowhere, as was the internet even though he so rarely used his computer. But it was nice to have, when he did need it. And nice that it wasn't total and utter crap, like he had thought it probably would be after buying the place.

He thumbed through his few contacts and found Sam fairly quick, pressing call and putting the phone to his ear. It rang no more than five times, before the call was picked up.

“Hey, man,” Sam greeted him. His voice was rough, and Steve figured he'd only just woken up. “You okay? What time's it?”

“Just after five,” Steve answered with a shrug Sam couldn't see, glancing at the clock that hang above the dog calendar just beside the fridge.

Sam sighed heavily on the other end and asked, “There a reason you're calling me at ass am?”

“Yeah.” Steve glanced into the living room, where Atticus was sniffing curiously at the stranger's metal hand, while the guy's face remained stoic. He was looking right back at Steve, and Steve offered him a quick and hesitant smile in return to the cold stare. “Could you maybe come over a bit earlier than you were planning? I could really use your help over here.”

“You okay?” Sam asked, instantly sounding more awake and alert. “Do I need to bring the kit with me?”

“No, I'm fine,” Steve reassured him. He paused, then said, “Actually, maybe you should bring the kit with you.” After all, Steve's own first aid kit was probably close to empty, while Sam's was more than likely fully stocked and way better.

There was a long pause on the other end, then Sam said, “Steve, that does not sound like you're fine.”

“Sam, I'm fine, I promise. Just...” Steve cut himself off, paused, and sighed. “I'll explain when you get here, alright?”

“Alright,” Sam said slowly. “I'll be there in an hour.”

 

_6:14 am_

 

The stranger ate like he hadn't eaten in ages, the plate Steve put in front of him practically devoured by the time Steve was halfway through his own bowl of breakfast cereal. The guy didn't even pause or hesitate to start eating, stomach rumbling loudly as he took the first mouthful.

Steve tried not to stare, he really did, but it was actually kind of fascinating to watch.

And when the guy was finished, he licked his lips, put the plate down, and fell back onto the couch, eyes moving right over to Steve. After everything he did, the guy just looked at him with such intensity, like he was trying to figure him out or waiting for something.

Steve couldn't figure out what, and the guy still wouldn't (or couldn't) speak.

Atticus was already standing by the front door, whining and tail wagging, when Steve heard the sound of a car pulling up from outside. The stranger heard it too, it would seem, because he suddenly tensed and sank further into the couch cushions.

“It's just Sam,” Steve reassured him, sending him a quick smile, before he stood up and walked out the front door, leaving it open and letting Atticus run out first. Daisy sat herself down on the porch, while Steve followed Atticus off of it.

“Morning!” Sam called out as he hopped out of his car, first aid kit already in hand, the other reaching out to scratch Atticus' head. “You and the dogs look perfectly fine. What's so urgent that you need me this early?”

Steve sighed and pulled Sam in for a quick hug of greeting once he was close enough, Sam squeezing him back. When they stepped apart, he motioned toward the house and said, “Atticus found something in the barn this morning.”

“Wolf?” Sam guessed, following Steve back toward the house, Atticus trailing after them.

“Uh, no,” Steve said with a shake of his head. As soon as they were on the porch, Daisy stood back up and was right by his side. “Not exactly.”

Sam frowned at him, one big question mark written on his face. He stepped inside and was still looking at Steve quizzically when they headed toward the living room. He asked, “The hell do you mean- Oh.”

The stranger was still sitting where Steve had left him, backpack clutched in the metal hand and face hard and guarded once again. His eyes snapped from Steve to Sam the moment they walked inside, and he looked about ready to bolt once again, tensing up visibly.

“Okay,” Sam said slowly after a full minute where the two of them just stared at each other had passed. “So you've gotten a whole new way of picking up guys now. Got it.”

Steve shoved at him and said, “Sam, come on. Don't be an ass, he's hurt.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Sam stood and stared silently at the guy for a few seconds more, before he carefully stepped over toward him. Steve could see the guy sink further into the cushions, almost like he wanted them to swallow him and take him away.

“Hey, man,” Sam said, and even though Steve couldn't see his face anymore, he knew he was smiling. Sam stretched out his right hand and said, “I'm Sam Wilson. What's your name?”

The stranger gave Sam the same treatment he had given Steve; silence and a cold and intense stare.

“He doesn't speak,” Steve told Sam. “Hasn't said a word since I found him in my barn.”

Sam shot him a quick glance. “Are you sure he speaks English?”

“Yeah,” Steve said with a nod, bringing his arms up to cross them. Daisy sat down at his left. “He understands it, at least. If he's mute, he doesn't sign.”

“Damn,” Sam muttered.

“Yeah, I know how much you wanted to impress someone with your signing abilities,” Steve said flatly.

Sam shot him a look, a brow quirked. “You mean other than the one guy I learned it for?”

“Of course. I know how disappointed you were with how unimpressed Clint was.”

Clint had been ecstatic, actually. He'd practically beamed when both Steve and Sam had greeted him in sign language a few years ago, only three months after Clint had lost his hearing permanently and joined them in retirement from the army.

Sam hummed quietly and turned his attention back to the stranger, who was now looking between them, watching them both carefully. “You tried getting him to write or something?” Sam suggested after a moment, glancing back at Steve.

Steve blinked. “Oh fuck, I didn't even think about that. Hang on.” He rushed out of the living room and into the kitchen. There was a notepad in one of the drawers, one he used to write down his grocery list and other things he needed to get next time he was in town. He grabbed it and returned to the living room along with a pen, Daisy trailing after him like a shadow.

Sam was sitting on the coffee table in front of the couch now, facing the stranger. The first aid kit was placed beside him. It was open but he didn't seem to be in any hurry to start cleaning the guy's wounds, nor did the guy seem like he was in a hurry to let him.

“Here,” Steve said and held the pad and pen out to the guy. The guy just stared at him in return, face hard but blank. Steve frowned and shared a quick look with Sam.

“Well,” Sam said, while Steve dropped the notepad in defeat. “No way to communicate, it looks like.”

A wet snout pressed against Steve's forearm, and Steve tore his eyes off of the stranger to look down at where Atticus was poking at him, whining softly and wagging his tail. Steve sighed and put his empty hand on his head, scratching behind his ears. The sun was up, and the farm was still asleep.

“Sam, I gotta get some work done,” he said. “I should have started an hour ago already. Could you watch him for me? Maybe try to get something, _anything_ , out of him?”

“You got it, man,” Sam agreed immediately. He turned to reach into the kit, eyes on the stranger and a kind smile on his lips when he spoke again. “We're gonna fix you right up, make you look brand new.”

The only reaction that got out of the stranger was a quick glance in Steve's direction, and then he sat up straight. Well, it was better than him leaning away from Sam, Steve decided as he offered him a quick smile that he hoped was reassuring.

Steve left the two of them to it and walked out of the house with Atticus and Daisy trailing after him. Daisy stayed by his side while he stepped into a better pair of boots, and Atticus ran ahead of them toward the barn.

Steve had gone into the whole farming business knowing it was hard work, but it was what he needed to do after retiring from the army. He had needed to do something to keep himself busy, something to keep himself moving around and not sitting still, and farming turned out to be the perfect thing for him.

He only had a few cows and two handfuls of chickens, all of which roamed free during the day and all of which were desperate to be let out when he walked over to do that. His farm was fenced in, giving the cows their own space while the chickens got theirs.

Atticus kept watch of them both, the cows more than the chickens because Redwing the rooster already had an eye on the chickens.

Steve didn't do all the heavy lifting by himself. He had tried to, for the first while. But he'd burned out and Sam had volunteered to help him out where he needed an extra hand.

Steve wasn't able to go to the farmer's market for more than a little while before freaking out, even when he had Daisy to anchor him. So Sam took over for him and had done it for him ever since the time where Steve had broken down and nearly had to be put in the hospital, because he just hadn't been able to breathe.

Sam helped out on the crops and helped him gather the eggs the chickens lay (and hang out with Redwing, because the two of them were cool with each other) and took care of the farm when Steve just couldn't get out of the bed.

Sam was a life saver, and Steve owed him his. They had met years ago, back when Steve was recovering from having lost his entire unit except for one man and when Sam was recovering from having lost his partner in the air force. They had been each other's security crutch for a while, helping each other through their recovery, and now they were best friends. Brothers, maybe.

Other than Sam, Steve had Clint to help him whenever the guy had a day away from his full-time job at the Bishop shooting range in town. Clint was deaf, his hearing shot out during a tour in the army, and Steve had met him when the guy moved into town a while ago.

He wanted somewhere quiet, he'd told him. Clint wore hearing aids when he needed to, but he preferred not to. It was just too loud and disorientating, and Steve understood that. So Clint never once wore his hearing aids around Steve, never once wore them around the farm. He didn't need to.

Lucky, Clint's service dog, was always brought along, and he and Daisy were work buddies, in a way. When they weren't on the job, they were like best pals and both acted like they were puppies again. Both Steve and Clint loved seeing that.

Atticus loved Clint almost more than he loved Steve. Steve took no offense to that.

Natasha was the only person who didn't help out at the farm. She helped out in many other ways, though. Like dragging him away from the farm every once in a while to clear his head and make sure he wasn't working himself into an early death, or forcing him into town once a week so he wouldn't become a total hermit, or coming by to make sure he wasn't becoming a total mess and dwelling in his survivor's guilt or depression.

Natasha was amazing, and Steve liked to ask her to marry him at least once a month. She always answered with a kiss on his cheek and a teasing, “Sorry, Rogers. You're one Clint Barton too late.”

There had never been anything romantic between her and Steve, though. She wasn't his type, and he wasn't hers, and they worked much better as friends anyway.

It was late in the afternoon before Steve finally found himself walking back into the house, Daisy trailing after him and Atticus still sitting outside, watching over the cows like a hawk.

Steve was sweaty and dirty and, to be completely honest, exhausted by the time he stepped inside and closed the door after him, stepping out of his boots. He felt gross and in desperate need of a shower, but instead of heading to the bathroom like he would have any other day, he headed for the living room.

He found Sam sitting on one of the armchairs, a thoughtful look on his face and gaze firmly locked onto the stranger. The stranger was still sitting where Steve had left him, looking less dirty and patched up now than earlier, but he didn't look like he had moved. At all.

Both of them were scowling, scowling at each other. Glaring, maybe.

“Am I interrupting anything?” Steve asked, breaking the tense silence that hang in the living room.

Both sets of eyes shot to him at the same time, and Steve raised his brows questioningly at both of them. The stranger was still silent and didn't move an inch, but Sam stood up with a huff and walked over to Steve. Steve saw the guy on the couch narrow his eyes at the back of Sam's head, and for a second Steve was worried.

But the guy didn't move, and Steve looked at Sam with a questioning brow raised.

“Well,” Sam started, crossing his arms and glancing over his shoulder at the stranger for a quick moment. “He's not speaking, but he can definitely hear. Every time one of the animals made noise after you'd let them out, he looked out the window like he was curious or something. Still hasn't said a single word though, and he's been ignoring me this entire time, except for many murderous glares because he apparently wasn't happy with the way I patched him up.”

Steve bit back a little amused grin and dipped his chin instead, hiding his face even though he knew Sam would know he was silently laughing at him anyway.

Sam paused for a moment, then nudged him and said, “Ya know, either he's severely traumatized, or he's a psychopathic serial killer. Plus, it looks like his whole left arm is made of some kind of metal, or something.” He shook his head, brows furrowed. “Maybe don't keep him in your house, Steve.”

“Fuck you, I do what I want,” was Steve's immediate response, although he never said it out loud. But apparently, the expression on his face gave him away, because Sam caught on immediately.

“Steve, no,” Sam said, shaking his head and giving him an almost stern look.

“Sam, I can't just throw him out,” Steve said, lowering his voice to a hushed whisper, even though he was fully aware that the stranger would probably still be able to hear everything they were saying.

“Then hand him over to the police,” Sam whispered back. “Steve, you don't know a damn thing about that guy. The fact that you're even considering keeping him in your house is crazy.”

“I don't care.” Steve glanced over at the stranger, his face softening when he saw him sinking back into the couch cushions and gripping his backpack so tightly. “Sam, the guy looks like no one's been nice to him for years. How am I supposed to be okay with just sending him off somewhere?”

Sam sighed heavily and looked heavenward. “I swear to God, if I come by tomorrow and find you dead in your bed, I'm gonna find a way to bring you back to life just to kill you again.”

And that was how Steve ended up with a stranger living in his house.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Parlez-vous français?" - "Do you speak French?"  
> “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” - "Do you speak German?"  
> "An labhraíonn tú Gaeilge?" - "Do you speak Irish?"
> 
> If any of these are incorrect, please let me know and I'll fix it.
> 
> All chapters have been written and will be posted regularly. Kudos and comments give me life. <3
> 
> Rebloggable post on [tumblr](http://hoechlbutt.tumblr.com/post/156986881653).


	2. PLACE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the positive response to the first chapter! <3

_**day two** _

  
  


Redwing was crowing loudly somewhere in the distance, the first few streams of light from the rising sun beaming in through the living room window, blinds pulled to the side. It left a soft and orange light in the previously dim-lit room, and Steve shifted where he lay on the couch, his internal clock slowly forcing him awake.

Eyes still closed, Steve reached out to shut off his alarm before it could even begin ringing, his body moving on autopilot as his brain slowly woke up. Only, instead of the alarm on his bedside table, his hand was met with something else.

Blinking, Steve opened his eyes into a squint and saw his hand resting on a knee, and the memory of the night before hit him.

The night before, after Sam had helped him on the farm and after telling him not to keep the stranger in his house and after Steve still refused to listen and after Sam left with a shake of his head and muttering about Steve's stupidity, Steve had offered up his bed to the stranger. He had a spare room with an extra bed, but the room was full of all the things Steve couldn't fit in the closet under the stairs or the shed outside, and they didn't have time to clear it out then.

So Steve took the couch, and the stranger took his bed. After all, the guy looked like he could really use a good night's sleep, and Steve's couch wasn't all too bad. It wasn't a hard decision to make, and the stranger, still not speaking, hadn't protested.

And now, the stranger was sitting cross-legged on the coffee table, wide awake and eyes firmly on Steve, watching him with a whole different kind of intensity than the day before.

“Um,” Steve said intelligently as he slowly retracted his hand from the guy's knee and moved to sit up on the couch. “Morning.”

This was probably weird, he realized as he squirmed under the stare of the stranger. To have someone he met yesterday and didn't even know the name of or anything be watching him sleep. Yeah, it was weird. But what was even more weird was that Steve wasn't weirded out by it.

He wasn't weirded out, nor was he scared. If he had been in any sort of danger, Daisy would have protected him. That was her job and she was good at it. And she was still laying on the floor next to the couch, awake but uninterested in the stranger still staring at Steve, staring so intently that Steve felt like he was being observed.

“Did you sleep well?” Steve asked, and he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes briefly. Now that he was sitting up properly, Daisy pulled herself up from the floor and jumped up on the couch, immediately putting her head in his lap with a soft harrumph. Steve scratched her head absently.

The answer to his question came in silence, which was no longer surprising to him, although the stranger did tilt his head just slightly to the right. At least that was an improvement. Kind of.

“I'm gonna take that as a yes,” Steve decided out loud, sending the guy a crooked smile. Daisy whined softly in his lap, and he patted her head. “You want some breakfast?” he asked the stranger.

The word had barely left his mouth, before Daisy lifted her head and perked her ears and wagged her tail, brown eyes wide and on him in an instant. Steve grinned at her and said, “Yeah, that means you too.”

When he looked back at the stranger, the guy was still silently staring at him, sitting cross-legged on the coffee table. He didn't say a word, just blinked at him, a small frown (or maybe a pout) stuck on his pink lips.

“Well, I do,” Steve said, unbothered by the awkward one-sided conversation that seemed to be a constant between the two of them. He stood from the couch, aware of the stranger's eyes following his every movement. Daisy jumped off as well and hurried to the kitchen, her claws clacking against the floor.

“Make yourself at home in the kitchen,” Steve continued and gestured toward the kitchen, as he walked around the couch and out the living room. “There's some fresh milk in the fridge, if you want it.”

If Sam (or Natasha) was there, Steve would have been yelled at for leaving a total stranger unattended in his house, access to his kitchen and access to all the knives in it. But the guy had had plenty of opportunities to kill him the whole night, and there Steve was. Still alive and completely uninjured.

Steve wasn't worried. He was more worried about the guy's banged up face and complete inability to communicate than he was worried about his own safety.

After a quick pit stop to the bathroom for a leak and to freshen up, Steve made his way into the kitchen and found Daisy sitting patiently by her bowl, ears perked and tail wagging the moment she saw him walk in. The stranger was sitting on one of the stools around the kitchen island, eyes on Daisy and hands curled into fists and resting on thighs.

Atticus was nowhere in sight, Steve realized as he stepped further into the kitchen, eyes on the stranger. He made sure the stranger knew he was there, Steve in his field of view, before he whistled loudly and called out, “Atticus! Food!”

He bend down to pick up the two dog bowls and called out again, whistling as he headed into the entrance hall where he kept the dog food. Daisy trotted after him and a moment later, he could hear Atticus come barreling through the house and into the kitchen.

Both of them sat patiently in front of their full bowls, when they returned to the kitchen, Atticus' tail wagging wildly and Daisy just watching Steve patiently. When Steve said, “Go ahead,” and motioned his hand to the bowls, neither of them hesitated to rush over and start swallowing down their food, the kitchen filled with the sound of almost aggressive chewing.

A little smile tugging at the corner of his lips, Steve turned back to the island and saw the stranger watching the dogs with such an intensity, Steve almost got worried. But it didn't take more than a few seconds of observing him quietly to figure out the guy was just curious.

“You hungry?” Steve asked, and the guy's eyes snapped to his. “I've got eggs, cereal, toast,” he listed, trailing off after just a few. He paused for a moment, hoping to get a response, but when he got none, he continued. “How 'bout some eggs and bacon? Sound good?”

The stranger said nothing and only moved his hands from his thighs to the island, no longer curled into fists but palms flat on the surface. Steve's eyes glanced down at the left, lingering on the metal digits and the plates shifting slightly as they moved. Sam had said the guy's whole left arm was most likely made of metal, and Steve's heart plummeted to the pit of his stomach at the thought of what might have happened to him.

He quickly tore his gaze away though, not wanting to be rude and stare at someone's prosthetic for too long, and he turned to get a pan from the cupboard above the sink instead.

“Eggs are from my own farm,” he said almost proudly as he turned on the stove, back turned to the stranger as he reached into the fridge for the eggs. “The bacon's store bought though. I don't know if you noticed when you were snooping around the place when you got here, but I don't exactly have any pigs to get bacon from.”

A glance over his shoulder told Steve that the teasing had done nothing, the stranger just scowling down at the surface of the island.

Steve kept talking as he made breakfast, kept trying to get the stranger to say something,  _anything_ , back. He kept trying to make him communicate, even just a little grunt or nod or a shake of his head. But all his attempts failed, and the stranger kept scowling down at the island. At one point, Steve was sure he was even scowling at his left hand.

Steve put a bit more eggs on his plate than his own, sending him a soft smile when he placed the plate on the island and slid it across it. The guy glanced up at him, but remained silent.

“If you don't eat bacon,” he said as he sat down on the other side, “feel free to give it to Atticus.” He nodded at where Atticus was now stretched out on the kitchen floor, his bowl already empty. Daisy was still licking hers clean, just finished.

The stranger merely gave Atticus a quick glance, before he dove in and started eating. Steve smiled at him and did the same.

  
  


_9:48 am_

  
  


The stranger refused to go outside. He refused to even leave the living room after they had finished eating breakfast. There was a clear and pained expression on his face and he was tense all over, so Steve stopped trying to get him outside with him. If he wanted to, he could join Steve outside any time.

The cows and chickens were set free, Atticus made himself comfortable on the grass in the cow's fenced in field, and Steve did some work on the crops for a couple of hours, Daisy laying down a few feet from him. He stopped only when he heard a rumbling coming from the dirt road leading up to the farm. He stood up straight and saw a familiar car pull up.

Dropping everything he had, Steve wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead and headed back to the house, a few moments after the car had parked.

“You're not dead,” Sam called out, one arm rested on the rolled down window of the driver's side. “Did you hand murderous cyborg over to the police, or did he bail?”

Steve rolled his eyes at him and stepped over, Daisy trotting along beside him. “Believe it or not, he's still inside. Still hasn't said a word, but he's definitely not murderous.”

Sam hummed as he got out of the car, giving him a doubtful look. “Yeah, I'm not gonna trust your judgmental on that, Steve.”

Steve gave him a flat look, brows jumping.

“Don't give me that look,” Sam said, shutting the door behind him. “I'm just looking out for you.”

“By falsely accusing a total stranger of being a murderer?”

“You don't know that it's not true.”

“And neither do you.”

Sam sighed and ran a hand over his head, scratching the back of it. “I'm just saying, he doesn't exactly look friendly.”

“Sam, he had plenty of opportunity to kill me while I was sleeping. He didn't do anything.” Steve paused, ducking his head a little before he continued in a slightly lowered voice. “Except for watch me sleep.”

There was a beat, then Sam asked, tone completely flat, “He did what now?”

“I know how it sounds,” Steve said, snapping his eyes back to Sam after staring down at his own boots, “but it's not that weird.”

“Right, because a total stranger watching you sleep is completely normal.” Sam sighed, his shoulders slumping a little as he glanced toward the house. “Well, I know there's no way I can talk you out of keeping him in your house, so how 'bout we clear out that spare room of yours?”

The stranger was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, when Steve and Sam stepped inside. He only shot them a short and quick glance, eyes lingering and narrowing on Sam for a brief second, before his attention returned out the window.

He was watching Atticus run around with the cows on the field, Steve realized as he followed his eyes out the window.

“I'm gonna get started on the room,” Sam said, grabbing Steve's shoulder and giving it a squeeze before nodding toward the stranger. “You get him to take a shower. I don't care if you have to spray him with the hose, he's starting to stink.”

Steve gave him a look and shoved lightly at him. “He doesn't smell that bad.”

“Steve, you're elbow deep in cow shit every day,” Sam pointed out, backing away. “Pretty sure your nose broke ages ago.”

“I can still smell your poor attitude from a mile away!” Steve called after him, and Sam flipped him off before heading up the stairs.

Steve shook his head, sighed softly, and looked back at the stranger. This time, the guy wasn't looking out the window anymore. No, he was looking right back at Steve. He was hunched in on himself, shoulders sagging, and Steve only noticed the backpack placed in his lap then. He wasn't questioning it, though. Whatever was in that was clearly important to the guy.

“Hey,” Steve said and stepped over, putting on a smile. “You up for taking a shower now? I'll even let you borrow some of my clothes, so you can get yours washed.”

The stranger made a face at him, scrunching his nose, and Steve quickly added, “It'll get Sam to stop telling you you stink.”

The stranger blinked, stared, and then slowly stood up, clutching the backpack to his chest.

Steve led him up the stairs and first to his own bedroom to get some clothes. His hands hovered over a tee shirt, but glancing at the layers the guy was wearing and the scowl on his face when he noticed the shirt Steve was considering, Steve decided against it and picked out a long sleeved sweater instead.

It was summer, although the end of it, but Steve didn't point out that the guy would be very hot very quick. Temperature wise, at least. He was already hot looks wise, but Steve kept that to himself.

Grabbing a pair of sweats along with the sweater, Steve led him to the bathroom, showed him how the shower worked, and then left him to get cleaned in private. Steve was only halfway down the hall, heading toward the spare room, when he heard the water running.

“He's in the shower,” Steve announced as he stepped into the spare room. It was a complete and utter mess. Natasha had called it his Depression Cave the last time she had even dared look into this room, and well... she wasn't completely wrong.

“I'm surprised you didn't join him,” Sam said in a mumbled voice. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his arms full of a box of something. Steve honestly couldn't remember half of the things that were carelessly thrown into this room anymore.

Steve gave him a flat look and scoffed. “Shut up.”

“I'm serious.” Sam groaned quietly as he bend down to put the box on the floor. “That's gotta be why you're so hellbent on giving him his own room and taking care of him, when you don't even know his damn name.”

“Maybe I just want to do something good for someone who needs it,” Steve said with a shrug. He grabbed the lamp that had been broken for ages, but he hadn't gotten around to throwing it out yet. It had been a gift from Dugan and his wife, and his heart clenched at the memory as he placed it out in the hall along with the few other things Sam had carried out already.

Nothing in the room was going to get thrown out, though. No, Steve wouldn't allow it. He was just going to put it all away in the shed, even if the shed was already pretty much full, his motorcycle taking up most of the space. It would just have to fit in there somehow, because Steve wasn't ready to say goodbye to any of these things.

“You did something good when you fed him and let him sleep in your bed for a night,” Sam said, his voice surprisingly soft now. “You don't have to give him your spare room or take care of him, Steve. I can take him with me when I go back in town. I can take him to the VA, get him help there. You don't have to do this.”

Steve paused for a moment, eyeing the mess of a room they were in. “What if I do?” he asked, looking back at Sam. “Sam, I couldn't help my unit, and I couldn't and can't help Gabe. But this guy? I might be able to help him.” He sighed, his brows furrowing a little. “I at least have to try.”

Sam looked at him for a minute, then sighed heavily. “Alright, fine. But I'm coming by to check on you every single day and if I find out he's trouble or hurting you or planning to hurt you or anything, I'm sending Natasha to kill him.”

Steve huffed out a laugh and punched Sam's shoulder. “C'mon, he ain't that bad,” he said. “He's just,” he shrugged, “quiet. You said it yourself, he might be severely traumatized. Can you blame him for being a little distant?”

“ _Might_ be,” Sam said and went back to cleaning out the room. Steve did the same. “For all we know, the guy might be a psychopathic serial killer, I also said that.”

Steve rolled his eyes at him and shook his head. “And  _I_ said that he's had plenty of opportunities to kill me and he hasn't.”

“Yet,” Sam muttered under his breath. Steve gave him a look but let it go.

There was a pleasant silence between them while they cleared out a few things, a silence that Sam broke when he turned to him and said, “But seriously, you wanna get into his pants. Don't even deny it, I know that look.”

Steve threw a book at him.

  
  


_10:38 am_

  
  


The spare room was pretty much cleared out and dusted off by the time Steve heard the water turn off in the bathroom down the hall. Sam heard it too, apparently, because he paused in where he was putting sheets on the bed to share a quick look with Steve.

“Well,” Sam said. “Looks like the raccoon is finally done.”

Steve didn't even bother commenting on the nickname nor did he bother giving him the eye roll he mentally did. Instead, he took half a step out of the room and into the hall, looking down it toward the bathroom. And when the door opened and the stranger stepped out, Steve swallowed thickly.

The dirt and blood and mud and whatever else had still been on his skin had been washed away completely, leaving a tan skin visible. His shoulder length, brown hair was damp, a few hairs sticking to his stubble covered jaw. The sweater Steve had lend him was maybe a size or two too big, and the sleeves hung low over his hands, left hand hidden completely and curled into a fist around the edge.

The sweatpants legs were pulled up a little, the stranger having stepped back into his still dirty boots. They clung to his thighs but sat loosely on his hips, the strings tied into a messy knot. His backpack was slung over his shoulder, looking out of place along with the boots.

He looked good, but there were still heavy bags under his eyes and there were still bruises and scrapes all around his face, and he shifted almost uncomfortably when he noticed Steve staring at him – which Steve realized he had been doing for way too long, by then.

“Hey,” he said after clearing his throat. “We're almost done clearing out the room for you.”

The stranger said nothing as he walked toward him. He said nothing as he sat down on the floor, cross-legged and next to where Daisy was asleep. But for the whole thing, he kept his eyes trained on Steve, and Steve tried not to feel nervous because of all the staring.

“I take it back,” he heard Sam say, and Steve looked over his shoulder to see Sam looking between them, his brows raised and an almost amused smile pulling at his lips. “He's not a raccoon, he's a damn cat.”

  
  


_6:17 pm_

  
  


Steve found out what the stranger had in his backpack while he was in the middle of preparing dinner.

He could barely see what the guy was doing, with him standing in the kitchen and chopping vegetables and the stranger sitting on the living room floor with his back to the wall and facing the door (Steve recognized that position – it was the position many veterans, himself included, tended to use), but Steve could see enough.

He could see Atticus laying on the floor beside the guy, curiously watching him and obviously begging to be pet, and he could see the stranger cross his legs and bring the backpack into his lap. He could see the guy glancing his way shortly before unzipping it and sticking his right hand into it.

He could see the black notebook the guy brought out with his hand, and he could see the guy carefully reading over a few of the pages, a pencil held tightly in his right hand while his left was tugged away between his legs.

Steve was curious about the notebook – curious what was written in it, what the guy wrote in it, so on and so forth – but he didn't say anything or ask. Instead, he looked away and gave the guy some privacy to do whatever it was he was doing.

It wasn't long, however, before Daisy suddenly whined by his feet, and Steve looked down at her to see her looking toward the living room. Following her gaze, he found the stranger suddenly flying up from the floor, grabbing his backpack and notebook, and storming forward.

Instinctively, Daisy started growling and moved in front of Steve, and Steve gripped the knife in his hand tightly, jaw clenching as he prepared for a fight.

But the stranger didn't spare them a single glance, didn't even seem to notice their defensive position. He just ran right out of the living room and stormed up the stairs. Steve heard a door slam shut a moment later, and his defensive look faded into a worried frown, while Daisy's growling returned to whining.

The guy had looked severely stressed out, his face pale and pinched and maybe a little annoyed, too. Whatever he had been doing, it had been too much, apparently.

Who the hell was this guy?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rebloggable post on [tumblr](http://hoechlbutt.tumblr.com/post/156986881653).
> 
> Kudos and comments give me life. <3


	3. NAME

_**day three** _

  
  


The guy needed a name, Steve decided in the middle of the afternoon as he took care of the growing vegetables. He couldn't just keep calling him “the guy” or “the stranger” in his head, and the guy clearly wasn't going to speak or communicate with him anytime soon, which meant there was no way the guy would give him his name. Steve may as well just give him one himself.

Growing up, Steve's mom and his grandmother had called him creative. Teachers had done so too, because he just never stopped drawing and doodling any- and everywhere he could reach, skinny hand always wrapped around a crayon or pencil or anything.

During his teenage years, people had called him creative as well, he'd even taken some art classes to improve his already pretty decent (“You're incredible, Steven,” his mother had always told him. “You could become a famous artist one day.”) art skills.

He stopped drawing for a while after his mother died when he was eighteen, but like any other artistic person, the urge came rolling back over him soon enough, after his heart stopped hurting and after he got back on his feet, living on his own with no one in his life. He'd joined the army only a year after though and given up any dream to become the artist his mother always told him he could be. The drawing and creating slowly thinned away into nothing, after that.

Steve had always been creative in a lot of ways, but naming things? Well, that wasn't really his strong suit.

There had been a cat walking around the streets of Brooklyn where he had grown up. It had been a stray, thin and dirty and meowing pitifully at no one in particular. Every time Steve had come walking home from school, the cat would meow at him and follow him until he crouched down and gave it attention for at least half an hour – sometimes, he'd even give it whatever was left of his lunch.

The cat hadn't had a name, no collar and no tag to identify it, and Steve had decided to just call it Picasso. He hadn't been able to come up with a fitting name himself, so why not just steal the name of a famous artist he liked?

The stranger currently living under his roof wasn't a pet or a stray cat, far from it (unless you asked Sam, who still referred to him as “the cat” or “the stray”), but he still refused to speak or communicate in any way despite Steve constantly trying to get him to. What else was he supposed to do than name the guy himself?

Steve mulled it over while he worked on the farm, trying to come up with a name that would fit him. He was still mulling it over, chewing on a few names, when he returned inside the house for a late lunch and found the stranger sitting cross-legged on the living room floor.

Atticus was laying by his side, asleep and snoring, and the guy had his left hand carefully buried in his fur. There was a frown stuck on his face, his hand still and right hand curled into a fist around the edge of the sleeve of the sweater he still wore, _Steve's_ sweater.

Letting out a soft puff of air into the quiet, Steve crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame of the living room. Daisy sat down by his side like always, stretching and yawning, and Steve smiled softly when the stranger met his eyes.

Steve's eyes quickly returned to the metal hand buried in his farm dog's short fur, though. He didn't mean to stare, and he wasn't staring, exactly. He was... admiring. The prosthetic was something else, something unique and extraordinary, and the artist in him desperately wanted to draw it.

Not that he was going to. He hadn't picked up a pen since before he retired from the army, and he wasn't going to start now. All his drawing tools were hidden away in the shed, along with so many other things that used to make him, well, him.

His eyes were still on the metal digits spread out between the fur when Steve finally came up with a name, the idea hitting him like a light bulb suddenly clicking on. A little grin tugged at the corner of his lips, but he quickly bit it back and looked at the stranger instead, meeting his eyes again.

“Hey, Luke,” he said, smiling toothily when the guy made a face at him. He shrugged and said, “What? You're not gonna give me a name, so until you're ready to talk or communicate with me, you're gonna have to deal with that.”

The guy- _Luke_ kept making a face at him, his scowl deepening, and Steve rolled his eyes but kept grinning. He would have said something else, but the sound of a car pulling up on the dirt road outside caught his attention. It caught Daisy's too, her ears perking and head turning. Atticus was awake in an instant, rising from his spot on the floor and sprinting out the opened front door.

Steve turned his head and leaned back just far enough to look out through the front door, and he saw Atticus run up to a familiar car coming to a parked halt. He rolled his eyes at the sight of Sam stepping out of the driver's side, although there was a fond smile pulling at his lips that he couldn't bite back even if he tried.

Steve only spared Luke a quick glance, before he followed Atticus outside, Daisy trotting after him with her tail wagging. Steve would complain about Sam's constant visits, but the dogs weren't the only ones happy to see him.

“Three days in a row,” he called out as he stepped onto the porch. “That's gotta be a new record.”

“Did you forget what I said yesterday already?” Sam huffed and ruffled Atticus' head, Atticus barking happily at him as he wagged his tail. “Every single day, Steve, I meant it.”

“I was a captain in the army,” Steve said as he stepped off the porch and onto the ground, walking over toward Sam. “I think I can handle myself, Sam.”

“Stop being a stubborn asshole and let me worry about you,” Sam said. “I'm allowed to worry about my best friend, especially when he takes in a stray who may or may not be a murderer.”

Steve sighed, stopped a few steps in front of Sam, and rested his hands on his hips. “Alright, fine. But you're not allowed to forget about yourself. We both know how you can get-”

“And we both know how _you_ can get,” Sam interrupted, giving him a pointed look. He lifted a finger and wagged it between the two of them. “You and I? We keep each other in check, just like always. You hear me?”

Steve nodded and reached out to grab Sam's outstretched hand, giving it a squeeze before letting go. “Always on your left, pal.”

“I'm counting on it.” Sam smiled crookedly at him, then looked over his shoulder and jutted his chin out. “How's your new cat doing?”

Steve followed Sam's gaze over his shoulder and saw Luke lurking further down the entrance hall, head ducked down and hair falling over his face a little and eyes on them. Daisy was looking at him too, but her tail was wagging and her ears were perked, so Steve wasn't worried. He wouldn't have been even if she wasn't, though. No, the guy was harmless.

“Still not talking,” Steve said as he turned back to Sam. He paused, attempting to hide a grin as he said, “Gave him a name, though.”

Sam turned to him, brows raising in curiosity. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Luke.”

Sam blinked, then gave him a deadpan look and stared at him while Steve grinned widely. After a minute of silence, Sam asked, “Really, Steve?”

Steve shrugged and said, “C'mon, it fits.”

“Uh huh, sure it does,” Sam said, giving him a look. “I can't decide if you're an asshole or a nerd.”

“I like to think I'm both,” Steve said.

“That you certainly are,” Sam agreed instantly, and they both chuckled.

Steve sobered quickly, though. “He, uh,” he started after a moment's hesitation. “He kind of,” he briefly struggled for a way to describe it, “freaked out yesterday.”

Sam frowned at him. “Freaked out how?”

“I don't know,” Steve said, lifting his shoulders. “He was just in the living room, writing in this notebook he's been carrying 'round in his backpack, and then suddenly he stormed up the stairs and locked himself in his room for hours.”

“Huh.” Sam's brows pinched together, and they both turned to look at where Luke was looking back at them, still standing where he had stood before. “Well, recovery ain't pretty. At least he didn't hurt you or the dogs, so maybe he's not that bad after all.”

Steve hummed noncommittally, and they both fell silent. Luke stood and observed them for another moment, before he slowly backed away and left the entrance hall quietly.

“Well,” Steve said and turned back to Sam, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “I've got some goods for the market. You up for it today?”

Sam grinned and wrapped an arm around him, letting himself be pulled toward the house. “You know it, my man.”

  
  


_6:29 pm_

  
  


When Sam returned from the farmer's market, Steve had only just gotten the last cow back in its stall. He was closing the barn doors and raising a hand in greeting, when Sam stepped out of the car.

“I'll be there in a minute!” Steve called out for him, rolling the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows again. His arms and legs and his entire body were sore, sweat and dirt and a variety of other things coating his pale skin. He was in desperately need of a nice, hot shower.

“Take your time!” Sam called back, hopping up on the porch. “Yo, where's the cat at?”

“His room, last I checked,” Steve answered as he pulled the last barn door shut. “Hey, you staying for dinner?”

Sam turned to him and even from the distance between them, Steve could tell he was giving him a look, one that clearly and loudly said _duh_. Steve grinned and held up a thumb, before he headed over to the chickens to get them inside too. Atticus was already over there, running around the field with Redwing honking after him, and Daisy followed Steve.

When Steve returned inside, worn out and sore, he found Sam in the kitchen, leaning against the island and watching Luke who slid down from the stool and onto the floor the moment Atticus came barreling toward him. Steve only watched them for a moment, a little smile pulling at his lips, before he looked at Sam and nodded his greeting.

“Was it busy today?” he asked as he grabbed the envelope laid out on the island. Sam had already taken his share, it looked like.

“Nah,” Sam said dismissively with a half shrug. “Weren't that many people, actually. I did run into Peggy, though.”

Steve looked up at that. “Yeah? How's she doing?”

“Better today,” Sam told him, a sly grin moving over his lips as he continued. “I mentioned Luke to her, and guess what? She's offended you didn't introduce her to your new boyfriend.”

Steve blinked and then flushed immediately, eyes shooting to where Luke was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Atticus' head in his lap. Luke didn't look at them though, didn't even seem to have heard them. He was too busy carefully carding his metal fingers through the short fur on Atticus' back.

“Please tell me you corrected her,” Steve said to Sam, almost begged.

“I did,” Sam said, and Steve let out a relieved breath. “Told her he's just some complete and total stranger you've decided to keep under your roof, because you feel guilty.”

Steve hung his head with a heavy sigh, because that wasn't exactly better. “It's not about me, Sam.” He lifted his head and met Sam's eye. “I'm just helping someone back on their feet.”

“Uh huh.” Sam didn't look convinced. “Oh, and just so you know, Peggy wants to punch you for being stupid, so it's not just me.”

Steve rolled his eyes and said, “I'm not gonna fight an old lady-”

“Not when said old lady is Peggy Carter, no.”

“- but I _will_ fight you.”

Sam's brows flew up his forehead, and his lips pulled back into a grin that Steve matched instantly. “Even if I had Natasha on my side?”

Steve's grin immediately faded away as he blanched. “Shit. Did you tell her, too?”

“Alright, calm down,” Sam said and reached over to place a hand on Steve's arm. “No need to freak out. She's on vacation with Clint, you know that. No phones, no internet, nothing.”

Steve let out a slow breath and sagged a little. “Fuck, Sam,” he whined softly. “She's gonna kill me.”

“Dude, I know,” Sam said, and Steve glared at him when he only grinned widely and amused. “When she finds out you've taken some total stranger with a murderous stare under your wing, she's gonna kick your ass six ways to Sunday.”

With a heavy sigh, Steve slumped over the island and let his forehead thump against the surface. “How 'bout we just don't tell her?” he suggested after a minute.

“Steve, you can't hide anything from Nat. Not only is she a special agent, her boyfriend is also Clint. Her bullshit detector is, like, level a billion by now.”

Steve let out a heavy sigh and placed a hand on top of Daisy's head when she put it in his lap. “Yeah, I know,” he said as he lifted his head.

“Exactly,” Sam said and patted his back. “Now, let's get some grub in our tummies. I'm starving.”

While Sam raided the fridge for something to cook, Steve turned around to look at Luke. Luke was still sitting there on the floor, Atticus now turned over on his back to expose his belly and the metal hand was carefully running down along his neck. Atticus was making pleased noises, Luke had a frown stuck to his lips.

The guy was completely harmless, Steve knew it in his heart, but he still wasn't looking forward to Natasha finding out about him. She was going to be worse than Sam, he knew she would be.

  
  


_**day four - six** _

  
  


Steve managed to get Luke outside on the fourth day. It took a lot of gentle pushing by pulling, but eventually Luke took a daring step outside, then another and another until his booted feet touched the green grass and his eyes squinted up at the sun that hang tall and bright on the cloudy and blue sky above them.

Luke stayed close to him, while Steve let out the cows and the chickens, and Steve noticed the constant flicker of his eyes, the way he looked around the farm constantly. It was like he was looking for something, like he was being so careful and paranoid, and Steve was reminded of how he himself had been when he had come stateside.

Luke could be a veteran, Steve realized. Just like him and just like Sam and just like Clint, Luke might have gone through the hell of returning to civilization. But Luke was far worse off, it would seem.

While Steve worked around the farm and did his job with Daisy being by his side the whole time, Luke sat down on the grass where Atticus had made himself comfortable, and he stayed there until Steve was finished with his work. And then he was right back to shadowing him, following him around silently.

Steve hated to admit it, but Sam was right. The guy really was a cat.

The fifth day went just about the same as the fourth.

On the sixth day, Luke didn't leave his room. Steve decided against trying to drag him out, and instead he decided to give him the time he needed to come out on his own.

  
  


_**day seven** _

_2:26 am_

  
  


For years now, even before he joined the army, Steve had been a light sleeper. The smallest thing woke him; like a bird chirping in the distance or a car pulling up on the dirt road or Atticus walking around downstairs or Daisy jumping up on his bed. After the army, he had become an even lighter sleeper. Which was a good thing, because it made Daisy's job of waking him up from a nightmare that much easier.

The smallest noise woke him, which was why the sound of a floorboard creaking down the hall made him spring up in his bed, Daisy startling awake from where she was laying on the pillow next to him. His heart raced, as he listened to the soft footsteps that moved toward his room, his fists clenching around the sheets.

But when he saw Luke pushing his door open, Steve let out a soft sigh of relief, his heart calming.

The relief, however, was quickly replaced by worry and concern when Steve noticed the pinched and pained expression on Luke's pale face. He looked shaken up, and Steve opened his mouth to ask him what was wrong.

But Luke spoke before he could say anything, his voice rough from disuse and tight, his words coming out firmly despite it.

“My name is Bucky.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve is a nerd #confirmed
> 
> Rebloggable post on [tumblr](http://hoechlbutt.tumblr.com/post/156986881653).
> 
> Kudos and comments give me life. <3


	4. LANGUAGE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover over the text for translations. If you're on a mobile device, translations will be in the end notes.
> 
> Also, a huge thank you to everyone who's commented so far. You guys are the best, and every single one of those comments means a lot to me. <3

_**day seven** _

_2:28 am_

 

Steve didn't go back to sleep, and Luke- _Bucky_ didn't move from where he stood in the door.

It took Steve a moment to collect himself from the surprise of hearing Bucky speak for the first time on top of being woken up in the middle of the night, but when he did, he sat up properly and turned more toward Bucky.

Bucky kept his eyes on his feet. They were bare; his boots left off somewhere, Steve assumed. He wasn't saying anything else, wasn't repeating himself, wasn't moving. His brows were pinched together, his jaw clenched, and both his hands were curled around the edge of the sleeves, metal poking out of the left.

“What do you remember?” Steve asked after another minute of silence passed.

Bucky was silent, then he swallowed and muttered, “Я не знаю.”

Steve spoke a good handful of languages, but this wasn't one of them. However, after being good friends with Natasha for years, he was pretty certain he could recognize Russian anywhere. And that, even through the muttered and lowered voice, definitely sounded like Russian.

“I'm sorry,” Steve said as he shifted to the edge of the bed, his own bare feet hitting the hardwood floor of his bedroom. “I don't speak Russian.”

Bucky glanced up at him and met his gaze for only a brief moment, before he looked back down at his feet. He said nothing, returned to silence.

Steve studied him for a moment, before he guessed, “You don't want to speak English?”

Silence, a half shrug.

“Or, you don't think you can?”

More silence, then a slight nod. Bucky averted his gaze, like he was ashamed, the corners of his lips pulling downward and his shoulders tensing and moving up to his ears as his head lowered.

“Hey, it's okay,” Steve said quickly and softly. “You don't have to.” He paused. “I've got a friend in town who knows Russian. If she's back from her vacation, I can bring her here and you can talk to her, so I can help you.” And so she could scold him and be wary and cold to Bucky, but he didn't say that. “Is that okay?”

Bucky shifted slightly, then he slowly nodded.

“Now that I know you can speak, you're gonna have to give me verbal confirmation.” Steve needed to push, just a little. He paused, then softly added, “Bucky.”

Bucky met his eyes and mumbled, “Да.”

Steve at least know enough Russian to know what that meant, and he offered Bucky a little smile as a thank you. “You good to go back to sleep?” he asked.

Bucky shook his head almost immediately. Steve was glad he was opening up now. It was progress, and it settled the worry in the pit of his stomach that he had been ignoring since he found the guy in his barn. Speaking and communicating; a definite improvement from the previously unresponsive glares and scowls.

“Okay,” Steve said with a nod. He thought for a moment, then grinned lightly and asked, “You ever seen Star Wars?”

 

_2:43 am_

 

Bucky scowled at Steve when Luke Skywalker showed up on the screen. Steve bit back a grin and kept his eyes on the screen, his hand gently scratching Daisy's head where it lay in his lap.

 

_6:34 am_

 

When Luke got a robotic hand at the end of Empire Strikes Back, Bucky flung a pillow at him.

Well, guess he deserved that.

 

_8:15 am_

 

The eggs were scrambled and cooking on a pan set on the stove. Bucky was on his stomach on the kitchen floor with his chin rested on his crossed arms and having a staring contest with Atticus who was wagging his tail and making soft noises at him, and Steve was tossing a treat to Daisy, when his phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.

Steve glanced at it, looked at Bucky and Atticus tilting their heads at each other, then grabbed his phone and opened the message from Natasha with a quiet sigh.

> **[** 08:14 AM **] Natasha** : Back in town. We need to talk ASAP. (＃｀д´)ﾉ

Unplugging the phone from its charger, he leaned against the counter and scratched his jaw, fingers roughing up his beard, before he replied.

< **[** 08:15 AM **] Steve** : I know. When and where?

Her reply was instant.

> **[** 08:15 AM **] Natasha** : Thor's. One hour. б(*｀・´)∂

Steve didn't bother with a reply, knew she wasn't expecting one either. He stuffed his now locked phone into his pocket and went back to the eggs. When they were done, he didn't bother getting two plates and only got the one, piling all the eggs onto it and setting it on the island afterward.

“Bucky,” he said and looked over to where Atticus was slowly crawling closer to Bucky, both of them still on the floor. Bucky lifted his head and looked at him when he spoke though. “I've gotta go into town and meet my friend. I'll only be gone a few hours. You gonna be okay with Atticus here?”

Bucky considered him for a moment, then he nodded. He said nothing though, but Steve wasn't worried. He had heard him muttering things under his breath most of the morning, so he hadn't gone back to complete radio silence.

Steve offered him a light smile, gestured to the plate of eggs, and said, “You get my portion, then.”

Bucky was up from the floor almost instantaneously, jumping onto one of the stools and grabbing the plate to pull it closer to himself.

Steve's smile turned fond as he watched Bucky swallow down the eggs hungrily, but the smile faded away quickly. This whole thing felt so normal, so domestic, that Steve almost went over to plant a kiss on Bucky's forehead. Like he was saying goodbye to his lover.

Clearing his throat as he pushed away the awkwardness that settled in him, Steve turned and hurried out of the kitchen instead. “See you later, Buck,” he said carefully calm. He patted his thigh to get Daisy to follow him, though she was already trailing after him.

He got into his shoes, grabbed a light jacket to throw over his tee shirt, and put Daisy's vest on her, attaching a leash to the back, before he went out of the front door and closed it behind him. He didn't lock it, didn't want Bucky to think he couldn't leave if he wanted to.

He wasn't worried about burglars or thieves. For one, he didn't have anything particularly monetarily valuable, only things that were valuable to him personally and sentimentally. For another, Atticus was still there. For a third, his farm was out in the middle of nowhere. It wasn't worth it.

Steve's choice of transport, other than the motorcycle he had locked away in the shed and hadn't used in years, was an old and rusty pickup truck. The red paint had become a softer and rustier hue over the years, and the underside of it was painted with a scatter of mud and dirt from driving on the dusty roads leading up to the farm.

Daisy got put in the passenger seat, and Steve got into the driver's seat, and then he drove off. To keep his mind occupied and not thinking of all the possible things that could go wrong from this point forward and to settle his anxiety, he turned on the radio for the whole ride into town, volume turned up.

It took him fifty-three minutes before he made it into town, and when he finally parked by Thor's Cafe, he was only a few minutes late to meeting with Natasha. She never cared that he was late, he knew that. As long as it wasn't a full hour, she wasn't bothered by it.

So Steve couldn't blame his lateness for the glare she was giving him, when he walked up to the table she was sitting at inside the cafe. Her arms were crossed and her narrowed eyes were watching him intently as he walked around and sat down on the chair opposite her. Daisy laid down to his side, leash laid in his lap and still wrapped tightly around his closed fist.

“Hey, Nat,” he greeted Natasha with a (hopefully not too) nervous, little smile. “How was the vacation?”

“Good,” Natasha answered shortly and simply. She eyed him for a moment, then gestured to his face and said, “Still going for the lumberjack look, huh?”

Steve smiled a little and ran a hand over his bearded jaw, lifting a shoulder in a shrug. “Yeah, I think it looks pretty good.”

Natasha hummed, not disagreeing nor agreeing. “So, Sam tells me you've taken in a stray,” she said, apropos of nothing.

Steve groaned and slumped back in his chair, while she quirked a judgmental brow at him. “Nat,” he started, but she interrupted him.

“If it wasn't because it would upset Daisy, I would punch you right now, Steve.”

He sighed and lifted his gaze from the table between them, meeting her hard gaze. “You don't need to give me the talk, Nat,” he said. “Sam already did that. Multiple times.”

“And did you listen?” Natasha asked, raising both of her brows pointedly.

Steve paused. “No,” he admitted in a mutter. “But he's not that bad, I promise. And he's making progress. He talked last night.”

Natasha looked like she wanted to argue, like she wanted to call him a long string of things, but then she sighed and it was like she let it go as her breath escaped her. “Fine,” she said with a shake of her head. “But he's living under your roof, so I want to meet him. ASAP.”

“That's perfect, actually,” Steve said and sat up straighter. “I was gonna ask for your help, because Bucky – that's the, uh, stray,” he winced a little as he said it, not particularly fond of calling Bucky that. “I don't know why but he won't speak English, only Russian. Well, the little he does speak, that is.”

“So, he's Russian?”

Steve shrugged. “I don't know.”

Natasha raised a curious brow. “Does he know?”

“I don't think so,” Steve said and frowned. “I don't think he remembers anything, actually.”

Natasha said nothing. She didn't get a chance to either, because then Steve's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he reached in to grab it. “Sam,” he explained to Natasha as he unlocked his phone and opened the message he had received.

> **[** 09:28 AM **] Sam** : busy at the va today. hmu with a life sign please

“He just worries about you, you know.”

Steve lifted his gaze from his phone and looked at Natasha. Her face was soft, a little smile on her lips, and he sighed, nodding slightly as he said, “Yeah, I know.”

“You're his best friend,” she said. “And you know what happened to his last best friend. Can't blame him for worrying about you, when you're being reckless and stupid.”

Steve slowly looked back down at the text, his shoulders slumping a little. He knew Sam worried about him, worried that he was going back to his self destructive habits, worried that he threw himself into something he couldn't handle, worried that he was falling all over again.

He knew because he was the exact same way when Sam had particularly bad days.

But it was in Steve's nature to raise his middle fingers at the universe and at anyone who told him he couldn't do something; to prove people wrong and to fight for what he believed in. Even if that meant being a burden to his friends and making them worry unnecessarily.

With a silent sigh, he typed out a response.

< **[** 09:30 AM **] Steve** : I'm good. Met up with Natasha at Thor's, if you've got time to stop by for a coffee. Bucky spoke last sign btw.

He didn't even get to put his phone down, before it buzzed twice in a row.

> **[** 09:31 AM **] Sam** : how dare you come to town when i'm too busy to meet up  
> **[** 09:31 AM **] Sam** : who the fuck is bucky??

< **[** 09:31 AM **] Steve** : Luke. His name is Bucky and he's an okay guy fyi.

All Sam responded with was a thumbs up emoji, which had to mean he really was busy, possibly swamped, at the VA. So Steve didn't reply back, and instead he put his phone face down on the table and returned his attention to Natasha, who was watching him with a small and kind smile on her lips.

“Sorry,” he said, returning her smile softly. “Can we talk about your vacation now, please?”

“Sure,” Natasha said with a half shrug. “There's not much to talk about, though. We didn't see much other than the inside of our hotel room.”

Steve huffed a laugh while she grinned widely. “Nice,” he said. “Clint's still worn out, then?”

“Oh yeah,” she said with a huff. Smirking, she grabbed the half finished drink in front of her and winked at him. “He's not leaving bed until long after noon.”

Steve snorted and shook his head fondly.

 

_10:55 am_

 

When Steve returned back home with Natasha in tow, Bucky wasn't in the house.

“Buck?” he called out as he got Daisy out of her leash and vest. There was no reply.

Bucky wasn't in his usual spot in the living room, he wasn't in the kitchen with Atticus where Steve had left them just a few hours ago, he wasn't in his room, he wasn't in the bathroom, he was nowhere in the house.

But then Steve looked out the window, looked out over the farm, and saw Atticus sitting in the grass and watching over the cows roaming around the field. And beside him was Bucky, legs drawn up and arms resting on his bend knees, back turned to the house and shoulders slumped.

“Is that him?” Natasha asked, coming up beside him and following his eyes out to the two outside. “The guy with the shaggy hair and _your_ sweatshirt?”

Steve ignored the heat that suddenly went to his face at the way she said the latter, but given the way she grinned and teasingly elbowed his side, he knew she noticed the flush despite his efforts to push it back down. She always was too observant, and he always was shit at hiding anything.

“Yep,” he said shortly, and then ran away from that conversation, knowing full well she was grinning after him.

Steve had barely taken more than a few steps outside, when Bucky suddenly seemed to tense and his head whipped around. The hard lines on his face that Steve could see even from the distance between them softened when Bucky saw him, and Steve offered him a little smile as he walked closer.

Atticus came running over to him, tail wagging and tongue lolling, and Steve reached out to pet him but kept his eyes on Bucky.

“Hey, Buck,” he said. He paused, eyes trailing over the sweatshirt Bucky was wearing. Steve was certain that hadn't been one he had lend him. “Did you raid my closet?”

Bucky's face remained stoic when he mumbled something in Russian that Steve didn't understand, his right shoulder lifting in a casual shrug.

“Well, maybe you could come to town with me sometime, and we can get you your own clothes.”

Bucky immediately glared at him, and Steve held up his hands. “I'm not saying right now,” he said. “I'm just saying, you can't keep stealing my clothes. That's gotta end sometime.”

Bucky continued to scowl at him, but when his gaze shifted to the side, his face changed immediately. He tensed and lowered his head, and Steve looked over his shoulder with a frown. Natasha had come outside as well, but she had stopped right in front of the open door, arms crossed and eyes watching them intently. Steve couldn't see, but he knew she was giving them, Bucky specifically, a calculating look.

“That's my friend,” Steve explained and looked back at Bucky. “Natasha. She won't bite,” he hoped, “come on. Let me introduce you properly.”

After a moment of hesitating, Bucky stood up and followed Steve toward Natasha. Steve noticed, as he glanced over his shoulder at Bucky to give him an encouraging and reassuring smile, that Bucky had hid his left hand in the sleeve of his sweatshirt, metal hand curled into a fist and subtly moved behind him. Steve frowned at him, but he didn't ask.

Natasha's face remained hard and her shoulders squared as they came to a stop in front of her. Bucky ducked his head and averted his eyes, shrinking under her gaze.

“Natasha,” Steve started, hoping to loosen some of the tense atmosphere a little. “This is Bucky. Bucky,” he gestured between them, “this is Natasha.” He looked at Natasha and signed, _Be nice_.

Natasha gave him a pointed look, then looked at Bucky. She was silent only momentarily, before she said something in Russian that Steve, once again, didn't understand. He was prepared to not understand a single thing that was said from here on out, though. Although, going from her tone, Steve figured she was being (over)protective.

He wanted to roll his eyes, but he didn't. Instead, he just gave her a look.

Bucky shifted a little, before he met Natasha's gaze tentatively and muttered a quiet, “Я понимаю.”

“Good,” Natasha said, and suddenly her hard facade faded as a smile took its place. There was a certain tightness in it, and Steve knew it was more professional than it was genuine. “Let's go talk, then.”

 

_11:49 am_

 

Natasha sat on the couch in the living room, one leg crossed over the other and right arm resting on the back as she leaned into the cushions. Her face had softened a little, but there still remained that hardness in her voice as she spoke, eyes never leaving Bucky.

Bucky sat cross-legged on the armchair to the left of the couch, left hand tugged down between his legs as if to hide it and right hand resting on his shin. His head was ducked down just slightly, his brows low and furrowed, but his eyes met Natasha's and only glanced over to meet Steve's every once in a while – almost like he needed to be reassured that this wasn't an interrogation. It probably felt like it.

Steve stood by the door to the living room with Daisy laying over his feet, arms crossed and shoulder resting against the door frame and eyes flickering between the two of them as they talked in a language he only understood a handful of words of.

Natasha talked more than Bucky, and Bucky's side of the conversation came out in mutters and, occasionally, a few English words. But mainly, the conversation happened in Russian, and Steve had no idea what they were talking about.

But whatever it was, it frustrated Bucky. That much was painfully obvious.

Steve could take a wild guess; Natasha was trying to get him to remember, and Bucky couldn't remember anything or very little. It made Steve's heart hurt.

It was past noon, when Steve realized he wasn't helping in any way by just standing there and watching them. It probably only made it worse, made Bucky feel like he was being interrogated even more. So quietly, he stepped back and went outside to work instead of just hovering over them. He figured that would be less stressful for Bucky, anyway.

He only just managed to work up a sweat, before he heard Natasha call out, “Steve!”

Steve whipped his head around and saw Natasha sticking her head out of the kitchen window. He couldn't see her face but he could see her waving hand, so without even thinking about it, he dropped everything in his hands and practically ran to the house, Daisy hurrying after him with a small whine.

“Everything okay?” he asked the moment he was inside, panting a little and brows furrowed with worry.

“Well,” Natasha started with a sigh, “he remember something and then stormed off to his room. Figured it's best not to push further.”

Steve asked, “What did he remember?”

“His full name,” Natasha answered after a beat. “James Buchanan Barnes. Sound familiar?”

Steve frowned. It didn't ring a bell at all, he'd never heard the name before, so he shook his head slowly. “No,” he said. “Should it?”

Natasha shrugged a shoulder. “Maybe not, but it sounds familiar to me.”

Steve paused. “You know him?”

“No, but I've heard his name before.” She paused, frowning. “Somewhere.” Shaking her head, she said, “I'll try to dig up anything on him I can, but until then, there's nothing more I can do.”

With a silent sigh, Steve nodded. “Thanks, Nat,” he said. “I owe you one.”

Natasha smiled crookedly at him and lightly knocked her fist to his shoulder. “You owe me several, but you're not the one I'm helping here.”

Steve wanted to say that, in a way, she was, but he didn't and instead embraced her in a hug that she returned easily. She left, and Steve headed upstairs toward Bucky's room. The door was closed, and when he rapped his knuckles softly against the wood, there was no reply. He hesitated for only a second, before he pushed the door open and looked inside.

Bucky was sitting on the floor, back leaning against the bed and legs drawn up to his chest and arms wrapped around them, his head ducked down and face hidden behind the curtain of brown hair. He was shaking a little, and Steve frowned at him.

Slowly and carefully, Steve stepped over and silently sat down beside him. He was careful to leave a bit of space between them, wanted to respect Bucky's personal space, but that space shortened immediately when Bucky practically fell to the side and leaned his head on his shoulder. Steve swallowed and ignored his pounding heart.

Daisy trotted over and laid down with her head in Steve's lap, eyes on Bucky as she whined softly.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Bucky said after several minutes of silence. His voice was rough, but he continued. “People called me Bucky. Born in Indiana, lived in Brooklyn. I don't... I don't remember-”

“It's okay,” Steve cut in softly and shifted to wrap an arm around Bucky's shoulders, pulling him closer. “It's okay, you will eventually.”

Bucky paused, then croaked out, “Not sure I wanna.”

“What do you mean?” Steve asked with a frown.

Bucky didn't answer, and Steve didn't push. Even though his curiosity was killing him and his heart was aching for this tortured man, he didn't push. He just held him as Bucky leaned into him, reaching out for comfort that Steve found himself more than willing to give him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “я не знаю.” - "I don't know."  
> “да.” - "Yes."  
> “я понимаю.” - "I understand."
> 
> If any of these are incorrect, let me know and I'll fix it.
> 
> Rebloggable post on [tumblr](http://hoechlbutt.tumblr.com/post/156986881653).
> 
> Kudos and comments give me life. <3


	5. PAST

_**day twelve** _

  
  


It took days before Natasha came back. During those days, Bucky started talking more. He was still mostly quiet and mostly kept to himself or following Steve around like a cat or laying with Atticus, but he was doing better. Not a lot but some, which was better than nothing.

Bucky hadn't told Steve about anything else he remembered, but Steve had seen him write stuff down in his notebook every once in a while. He just assumed that was stuff he was remembering.

Steve wanted to ask, but he didn't. He wanted to ask because every time Bucky wrote something down, he had this little, troubled frown stuck to his lips and this little crease between his brows. He wanted to ask but he didn't, because Bucky deserved some privacy. It wasn't Steve's business, not unless Bucky wanted it to be.

Steve was cleaning his tractor out in the open, sleeves rolled up to above his elbows and skin and hands gross with sweat and oil and dirt, when his phone buzzed in his back pocket.

> **[** 03:12 PM **] Natasha** : on my way to you, old macdonald! found some stuff about your stray. :)

He stared down at the text for a good minute, dirty thumbs hovering over the screen for a second before he typed out a response and hit send.

< **[** 03:13 PM **] Steve** : Good or bad?

He didn't bother putting his phone back down, before Natasha replied.

> **[** 03:15 PM **] Natasha** : (｡•́︿•̀｡)

Steve frowned down at her message. That definitely didn't look like it was anything good, and he felt his heart falling into the pit of his stomach. Slowly, he lifted his gaze and looked over at where Bucky was laying on his back in the grass, Atticus on his stomach next to him.

This was going to be a hell to get through.

  
  


_4:26 pm_

  
  


Steve stared down at the file that had been put down on his kitchen island. It was thick, looked like it hadn't been touched for years, and it looked overwhelming. If he was feeling like that, he couldn't imagine what Bucky had to be feeling at the sight of it.

Slowly, he looked to the other side of the island, where Bucky was sitting and staring down at the file. His jaw was clenched and his brows were pinched.

“Buck, you don't have to do this right now,” Steve started to say, but he was cut off when Bucky's left arm suddenly shot forward, hand slamming down onto the file and sliding it closer to himself.

He didn't open it, though. He just stared down at it.

“How bad is it?” Bucky asked in a tight voice, the question, Steve assumed, directed at Natasha but his eyes never left the file in front of him.

Steve looked over at her. Natasha was still standing to the side, bag slung over her shoulder and eyes locked onto the metal arm Bucky had resting on the island, the hand curled into a fist and the plates shifting slightly. She didn't look surprised or disgusted or curious, though. No, it was like she had expected it.

“Not too bad,” she said after a moment passed by, her voice carefully soft. “It's,” she paused, searching for the right word, “a lot to take in.”

Bucky was still as a statue when Steve looked back at him, and Steve said nothing. It took a while, the silence tense in the kitchen, but eventually Bucky opened the file and slowly went through the many, many pages with a worryingly still hand, his face pinched and pale and unreadable as his eyes scanned over the pages.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Natasha started reciting after several minutes of silence, her voice emotionless – Steve assumed it was carefully so. “Born March 10, 1990 in Indiana, USA. Only son to George and Winifred Barnes.” She paused. “Deceased.”

Steve's heart broke, the pieces falling into the pit of his stomach. Bucky stilled and tensed.

“Big brother to Rebecca Barnes Proctor,” Natasha continued. “Alive. Married with two kids on the way. Twins.”

“Becca,” Bucky whispered so quiet, Steve almost didn't hear him.

“Excellent athlete throughout his childhood and high school years, excelled in the classroom, expected to do well in ivy league colleges,” Natasha recited. “Joined the army at age nineteen. Position, sniper.” She paused, and Steve almost wished she hadn't continued. “Went missing in action in 2011. Presumed dead.”

Bucky's left hand curled into a fist and clenched, his whole arm whirring quietly as the plates shifted. Daisy whined and shifted closer to Steve. Steve didn't move, neither did Natasha.

“That was six years ago,” Steve said slowly.

“It was,” Natasha agreed, her eyes still locked onto Bucky. “But it was you, wasn't it,” there was a beat, then, in a cool and clipped voice, she added, “Soldat?”

In an instant, Bucky snapped his head up and glared darkly at her. “Don't call me that,” he practically growled, and Steve felt more than saw Daisy shift even closer to him, pressing herself to his legs.

The way Bucky looked at her... Steve was reminded of when he first found him in the barn. That cold, cold glare that was like looking at a bunch of daggers about to be thrown at you. Steve remembered looking at him and having prepared himself for a fight, but when he looked at Natasha, she didn't look any different from before.

Trust her to keep her cool in situations like this.

Steve could practically hear Sam yelling at him and calling him an idiot or a moron, when he found himself gravitating toward Bucky just a little. Daisy was standing in his way a little, but she just moved with him and didn't try to stop him.

Natasha hummed shortly and said, “That's what I thought.” She shifted her bag back to her front and dug into it. Without breaking the eye contact she had with Bucky, she pulled out another file and dropped it down in front of him on the island.

This one was thinner, much thinner. Steve recognized the words printed on the front as Russian, and he felt his heart hurt and his jaw clench.

“They call him the Winter Soldier,” Natasha said, when Bucky did nothing but stare at the file in front of him, features hard and unreadable. “He started appearing in 2011, only months after Barnes had gone missing in action and was officially pronounced dead. He was, or is, an assassin for the Nazi organization known as Hydra.”

“You can't know it's him,” Steve interrupted, his heart hammering and falling all at the same time. Daisy was nudging the back of his clenched fist with her snout, but he didn't react.

Natasha looked his way, paused, then said, “No one has been able to identify the Soldier in all the years he's been active. But everyone who has been attacked by him and survived and all the eye witnesses all say one thing.” Her eyes moved back to Bucky, when she said, “His arm is made of metal.”

Steve felt sick. When he looked over at Bucky, tentatively, Bucky was pale and tense and shaking. Steve knew the start of a panic attack when he saw one, and he was stepping over toward him before he could even tell himself not to.

“Steve,” Natasha started in a warning tone, but Steve ignored her just like he ignored Sam's voice in his head calling him a reckless idiot and just like he ignored Daisy trying to stop him.

To hell with whatever Bucky's past was. Steve had spend almost two whole weeks in close proximity with this man, and he was as harmless as a stray cat. There was no way this man was some evil assassin for a Nazi organization, no way in hell.

“Bucky,” Steve said carefully, not touching him but hovering nearby. “Buck, can you hear me?”

The metal hand twitched, Bucky's head ducked and his face hid behind the curtain of his hair. His shoulders were tense and up to his ears, body shaking ever so slightly.

“Bucky,” Steve said again, his mouth still hanging open, forming a new word, when he was cut off abruptly.

The metal hand opened and moved toward him. Before Natasha could take more than half a step forward and before Daisy could do anything more than growl and put herself further in front of Steve and before Steve could get a single word out or even blink, the metal hand moved up behind his head and smacked the back of it.

Steve blinked in surprise. “Ow.”

“You let a stranger into your home,” Bucky said in a lowered and tight voice.

“Ow,” Steve repeated quietly, unsure of what else to say. He rubbed the back of his head where he had been smacked, blinking owlishly at Bucky.

“You let a fuckin' stranger sleep in your goddamn bed,” Bucky continued and lifted his head, glaring at Steve. “I could have been an axe murderer, Steve, but no. Instead I'm a damn assassin,” he spat. “I could have killed you!”

“But you didn't,” Steve argued weakly.

“That is so not the fucking point, you stupid punk,” Bucky interrupted and raised a warning finger at him.

A small snort made both of them turn and look at Natasha. Her face was still hard, but Steve could see a little amused smile curling at the corner of her lips, her eyes flickering between the two of them. He'd almost say she looked pleased more than amused, actually.

There was a tense silence between them though, a silence where Steve slowly raised his hand and put it on top of Daisy's head, silently telling her he was okay and thanking her. She whined softly and pressed into his hand.

“I don't remember that,” Bucky said after a minute, eyes on Natasha and hand gesturing to the Winter Soldier file. “I remember... bits and pieces of being captured and,” he paused, and Steve's heart broke all over again when he said, “tortured, but,” Bucky shook his head, “not killing people.”

Natasha was silent for a brief moment, then she sighed. “I figured,” she said with a small shake of her head. “Hydra is known for brainwashing. It's not surprising you don't remember anything.” She paused, eyeing Bucky with suspicion. “Hydra is also known for not letting any of their captives go alive. How did you get away?”

Bucky paused, brows furrowing in thought. He said, “I don't remember. I just remember waking up with a headache and no idea who or where I was. And then,” he paused, shooting a glance at Steve. “Then I walked for miles and miles until I found a farm in the middle of nowhere and hid in the barn.”

“And the rest is history,” Natasha finished for him. She was quiet for barely a second, and when she spoke again, her face was serious. “It's highly unlikely that they just let you leave. I think it's safe to assume that they'll come looking for you, at some point.”

“We're out in the middle of nowhere,” Steve said, his captain instincts immediately jumping into action and running through every possible way of protecting Bucky. “Atticus will know if someone comes, I've got a few guns locked up under the stairs, both Daisy and Atticus are trained to protect, and there are plenty of places to hide here.”

“You're retired, Steve,” Natasha said, her tone stern and gaze a near glare. “I can't let you throw yourself back into something like this.”

“She's right,” Bucky said in a quiet voice, and Steve turned to meet his gaze. Bucky was sending him a nearly pleading look, brows furrowed and lips tugged downward.

Steve looked from Bucky to Natasha, and back again. “Tough shit,” he said and stubbornly crossed his arms. “I'm not going anywhere, and neither is Bucky.” He looked at Natasha. “If you want to send agents to watch over us, go ahead. But my farm is the safest place he can be, so he's not leaving.”

He paused, and immediately turned to Bucky to say, “Unless you want to. I'm not keeping you here against your will.”

Bucky watched him silently for several long and quiet moments, the pleading look slowly smoothing out into a more considering one. Slowly, he turned to look at Natasha. “I'm not leaving,” he said after a beat.

Natasha looked between the two, eyes lingering on Steve for a second longer than they did on Bucky. Then she sighed, her shoulders slumping as she visibly gave up arguing. “Alright, well, I can't get a protection squad on you unless there's a definite reason for it,” she said. “And right now, having agents roam around the perimeter will only look suspicious to Hydra, if they come snooping around here.”

There was a beat, then Bucky quietly asked, “Are you a cop?”

Steve snorted, ducking his head to hide the chuckle he bit back. Natasha smiled, amused. People always assumed she was either a cop or a detective, and she always found that annoying for some reason she wouldn't say. Steve just found it funny, especially because it did annoy her.

“No, I work for an organization called Shield,” she told Bucky. “We specialize in protecting people. And we'll protect you, James.”

“Bucky,” Bucky corrected in a mutter.

“Bucky,” she repeated with a quick nod. She looked at Steve, her smile gone once more when he met her gaze. “You have to promise me to text me if anything suspicious happens, or if anyone comes asking questions, or if _anything_ happens. I don't care if it's someone coming for Bucky or if it's you having another break down-”

Steve shifted uncomfortably, when he felt Bucky's eyes shoot to him when she said that.

“- you text or call me,” Natasha said. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Steve told her easily.

“Good.” Natasha swung the bag over her shoulders and looked between them, a little smile pulling at her lips. “Then I'll leave you boys to it.”

She left with a tight hug from Steve and a whispered, “I will personally kick his ass if you end up hurt in any way because of him.” Steve just rolled his eyes and promised her that he would be fine, giving her an extra squeeze in reassurance.

Natasha left with a quick handshake with Bucky and a promise that she would be no more than a text away, and she left with both files still on the kitchen island.

  
  


_**day fourteen** _

  
  


“I think I might've been gay,” Bucky told him one evening.

Steve blinked and slowly turned to look over his shoulder. Bucky was standing by the kitchen door, hands by his sides and fidgeting with the hem of his ( _Steve's_ ) shirt and head ducked, his brows furrowed and his shoulders tense and up to his ears. He looked about ready to take a punch.

Steve dropped the tomato in his hands and turned off the water that was filling the kitchen sink, drying his hands off in the towel thrown over his shoulder as he turned fully to him, giving him his undivided attention. “And now?” he asked, keeping his voice soft.

Bucky met his eye for only a split second, before he looked back at his feet and nodded, a few quick bobs of his head.

“Okay,” Steve said after a second, and then he turned back around, drying off the fresh tomato. Bucky was remembering and opening up, and Steve couldn't help the fond and proud smile that pulled at his lips.

There was a long pause from behind him, a long beat of silence, and then Bucky's voice came through it again. “That's it?”

“Uh.” Steve looked over his shoulder and offered him a little smile. “Congrats on figuring yourself out?”

Bucky stared at him. “So it's not...” He paused, shifting a little on his feet. “It's not a problem?”

In an instant, Steve's face softened and he turned back around to face him. “No, Buck,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “It's not a problem at all.”

There was another pause where neither said anything, but Steve didn't turn back around to continue cleaning the freshly grown tomatoes. No, because Bucky looked like he wasn't done, hesitation obvious on his face as he stood there.

“And,” Bucky started after a while, “what about you?”

Steve blinked and asked, “Are you asking me if I'm gay?”

Bucky lifted a shoulder in a half shrug, but he nodded only a second after.

“No, I'm not,” Steve said. He could have sworn that disappointment flickered over Bucky's features for just a second as he lowered his gaze. But his disappointment quickly vanished, when Steve continued with, “I'm bisexual.”

Bucky looked at him for a long moment, before he nodded. A second passed, then he turned around and moved to head back out of the kitchen.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve said, stopping him. Bucky looked back at him, and Steve smiled softly at him and said, “Thanks. For trusting me enough to tell me.”

There was a slight twitch in the corner of Bucky's lips, and Steve almost thought he would smile. But then he turned his back to him and left without another word.

  
  


– – –

  
  


Bucky never read the Winter Soldier file.

Steve saw him stuff it in his backpack and shove it far under his bed one day. If he read it, he didn't say anything about it.

And when he woke up screaming from a nightmare a few days in a row, Steve rushed to him and held him until he stopped shaking and until he knew where he was – knew that he was safe.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rebloggable post on [tumblr](http://hoechlbutt.tumblr.com/post/156986881653).
> 
> Kudos and comments give me life. <3


	6. LOSS & GUILT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Steve's survivor's guilt and flashbacks to losing the Howlies.

_**day twenty** _

  
  


_Dugan was yelling._

_Morita was screaming._

_Falsworth was scarily quiet._

_Dernier was...._

_Jones....._

_Steve yelled out for them all, shaking and coughing in between calling out their names. He clawed at the rocks and debris, his throat sore from yelling and screaming. His heart was pounding in his chest, so hard and loud that he feared it was going to burst out from behind his ribs and so loud that it nearly drowned out the ringing in his ears._

_Only nearly, though. The ringing was worse, and it made his vision swim and his head pound._

_His lungs were full of smoke, and he felt like he was right back to when he was a kid; unable to breathe properly. Except now, instead of just the air always being too thick, the air was full of smoke and dust and dirt, and Steve coughed roughly as he called out._

_Dugan was quiet, now._

_Morita was still screaming, voice hoarse and screams interrupted by scared sobs._

_Steve yelled back. His own voice sounded as distant as theirs, somewhere far away as he banged his dirty and scraped fists against the debris._

_He couldn't help, he couldn't help, he couldn't–_

Steve startled awake with a sharp inhale, shooting up in his bed and almost knocking into Daisy on his way up. He would have, had she not jumped out of the way quickly. But she was over by him in an instant, whining and curling up in his lap and licking at his chin.

His hand was shaking as he raised it to put it on Daisy's back. In fact, his whole body was shaking and his breaths came out shallow and too quick, his eyes full of unshed tears and wide open and unfocused on the bed sheet between his legs.

Distantly in the back of his head, he could still hear the screams of his unit – his _friends_. He could still hear them dying, and his throat felt tight and his eyes felt wet, his head pounding.

Choking on a sob, Steve curled in on himself and hid his face in Daisy's neck. She whined at him and wiggled closer, licking at his face.

He wasn't over there anymore, he reminded himself as he clung onto her. He wasn't over there, but it had still happened and the guilt and sorrow and pain still haunted him, still hurt and broke him, even after all these years.

_Should have been me, instead of them..._

He let out a heavy breath against Daisy and he sagged a little, losing some of the tension in his shoulders while she did her best to calm him down. Slowly, he lifted his head and wiped at his eyes with a quiet groan. He sniffled quietly, and then immediately stiffened all over again, when he heard a floorboard creak.

He whipped his head around, only tensing more when he saw Bucky standing in the door. Bucky had a frown stuck to his lips, brows pinched together and eyes watching Steve carefully. There was no way Steve could hide how shaken up he looked, and he hated how vulnerable he was in that moment.

He was supposed to be the one comforting Bucky when he had a nightmare, not the other way around. He was the one who was supposed to be strong and stay put together, but there he was; breaking and falling apart.

“Hey,” Steve croaked out, his voice rough. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Hey, Buck.”

“You were screaming,” Bucky told him after a beat.

_Damn it_. “Sorry,” Steve said in a lowered voice and put on a smile, hoping it came out less forced than it actually was. “Nightmare.” He paused, wincing a little. “Did I wake you?”

Bucky's frown deepened as he shook his head a little. He hadn't said a word and they didn't know each other all that well yet, but Steve was almost certain that that was a lie. As if he didn't feel guilty enough about his past, guilt about this too started to creep up on him, and he sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Sorry,” he said again, his voice lowered to a mutter this time. He shifted, drawing his right leg up and resting his elbow on his knee, putting his forehead in his one hand while the other kept stroking down Daisy's back.

Daisy wasn't whining anymore, but she hadn't moved from his lap. She was pressed to his front, her head leaning against his shoulder and wet snout sniffling at him softly. Her tail was thumping softly against the mattress, the only sound filling the otherwise quiet room.

Until there was the sound of footsteps coming closer, and Steve lifted his head to see Bucky sit down on the edge of the bed, eyes still locked onto him and frown still firmly in place.

“Tell me,” he said. It should probably have sounded like a demand, Steve figured, but Bucky's voice was... soft.

Steve ignored the fluttering in his heart, and instead lowered his gaze once more, breaking their eye contact.

“I was in the army,” he started after he had let the silence draw out for too long to be comfortable. “A captain, actually. There were five men in my unit. _Great_ men,” he added with a small and sad smile pulling at his lips. He wasn't looking at Bucky, but he could feel a gaze on him. His smile faded quickly though, his gaze falling down onto Daisy curled up in his lap.

“But,” he continued, voice lowered, “that ain't always enough. Things go wrong in the army, right when you don't expect it to. You're in an active war zone, so you're always prepared for everything to go wrong at any moment, but when it does...” He paused, shaking his head and swallowing thickly. “When it does go wrong, it feels like the world is ending. All the preparation you do just wasn't enough.”

Daisy whined and shifted closer to him, and he whispered softly when he said, “It's never enough.”

Steve was thirty-one years old, but sometimes he felt so much older than that. Like he was in his nineties, his heart heavy with the loss that came from a long life and body exhausted at every moment, his limbs as heavy as lead most of the time. It made his job as a farmer hard, but pushing his body to exhaustion and beyond that was the only thing that made him feel the slightest bit alive.

Even though, sometimes, he didn't feel like he deserved it. To even feel alive, when the people he had cared for so deeply in his life couldn't.

“We were send out to take down an enemy base in a town of ruins,” Steve continued after falling silent for a brief moment, his hand slowly petting Daisy to make her stop whining at him. “I should have known it was a trap, but I didn't think and it cost my men their lives.”

He paused, fighting back the urge to break. “We were walking through this one building, and I got through just fine. But then, Dugan was yelling out to take cover, and next thing I know, a bomb went off and the building collapsed. With all of them inside. I couldn't get to them, but I tried,” he said and his voice finally broke.

Daisy whined at him again, curling around him.

“I tried so hard to get to them, but I couldn't,” he continued but stopped quickly after to cling onto Daisy. He didn't dare glance at Bucky, afraid he'd have that same pitying look on his face that everyone always had. Ever since his mom died, Steve had hated that pitiful look.

“I was the only one who got out of there uninjured,” aside from the few superficial wounds and the permanent wound in his heart and soul, but he didn't say that because what did it matter? “Gabe lost his legs and has been in a coma ever since. Doctors are saying he's never gonna wake up, but his wife refuses to pull the plug. Everyone else,” he cut himself off with a shake of his head and a slight sniffle. “Everyone else died.”

Steve had been to every single one of their funerals, and at every single one of them he had felt guilty. He was alive and physically healthy, while everyone he had ever cared about were buried six feet under or stuck in a hospital bed with tubes being the only thing keeping them alive and breathing.

He had met Sam shortly after Morita's funeral, and at least he hadn't had to go through the grief on his own. But it still sucked, and he wished he could take his unit's place in death more days than he didn't.

It were times like this, where nightmares haunted his brain and ruined his sleep, that amplified that wish.

There was a hand on his shoulder, and Steve stopped breathing. After a moment of hesitating, he slowly pried his gaze away from Daisy's ear and lifted it until it landed on Bucky, who had scooted a little bit closer to him. There was no pity in Bucky's eyes, and Steve let out the breath he had been holding.

There was no pity, only a hint of sadness, and Steve wanted to cry.

He found himself going willingly, when Bucky gently guided him back down to lay on the bed, his head landing on the pillow without ever once looking away from Bucky. Bucky came to lay down beside him, the hand on Steve's shoulder a comforting and warm weight.

Daisy shifted closer too, wiggled under his arm and laid her head on Steve's chest, and Steve's throat closed up.

He clung onto Daisy when his vision swam with unshed tears, and the first one rolled down his cheek when the hand on his shoulder moved to brush through his blond hair, Bucky's brows furrowing. But there was still no pity in his eyes, and Steve let himself break.

Daisy wiggled closer to him with a whine. Bucky carded his fingers through his hair but said nothing. And Steve cried himself to sleep, allowing himself to break just this once.

  
  


_4:58 am_

  
  


Steve's internal clock woke him up only a few minutes before the alarm would have started ringing. His hand instinctively shot out to turn it off before it could and before his brain even fully woke up.

His arms felt heavy as he moved it. It was like lifting a two-hundred pound weight, and he let out a heavy breath that came out more like a groan as his hand found the alarm clock. He dropped his arm back down quickly after, his hand brushing against soft fur where he knew Daisy would be asleep.

There was a weight on his chest, Steve realized as he blinked his eyes open. Brows furrowed in confusion, he lowered his gaze and–

Oh.

Bucky was asleep with his head pillowed on his chest, metal arm carefully laid across his waist and holding onto him. One of his legs was shoved in between both of Steve's own, and he was clinging onto him like the world's most cuddly octopus.

Heat rose to Steve's cheek, not only from the closeness but with the memory of the night before, too – which was, actually, not more than a few hours ago, but his brain (his internal clock, specifically) hated him and had woken him up anyway.

As he slowly brought a hand to Bucky's back and as Bucky sniffled and shifted closer in his sleep, Steve's heart warmed and clenched, and he knew he was in too deep.

Oh, he was so, so screwed.

  
  


_**day twenty–four** _

  
  


It was raining, the dark sky full of gray clouds that unleashed buckets and buckets of cold water. It was raining, which meant Steve's work day at the farm was cut short the second it began pouring down close to noon. He got the cows and the chickens back inside with Atticus' enthusiastic help as fast as he could, hoping to minimize the chance of getting soaked as much as possible.

But when he stepped inside the house, he looked like a drenched dog. His hair was flat on his head from the water, his clothes sticking and clinging to his skin, and his boots were full of rain water.

Daisy and Atticus shook themselves right in front of him, spraying him with dirty rain water, and he groaned at them. “Guys, come on,” he complained and stepped out of his wet boots, putting them by the radiator in the entrance hall.

Atticus went straight to the dog basket in the living room by the unlit fireplace and curled himself up there, while Daisy stayed close to Steve. The house was going to stink of wet dog for ages, Steve realized with a sigh.

He got out of his wet socks and wet over-shirt with a grimace, rolling both into a ball and tossing it into the laundry basket in his room. He went to the bathroom for a quick and warm shower, before he wrapped himself into a dry and warm sweater and sweatpants, covering his feet with a pair of warm socks and hoping, praying to whoever would listen, that he wouldn't catch a cold.

He was only halfway down the stairs, before he realized something. The house was too quiet.

“Buck?” he called out, brows furrowing.

A few seconds passed, then he heard Bucky, his voice tight as he called back, “Kitchen!”

Steve's feet moved before he could even think about doing so. He found Bucky sitting by the kitchen island, on the stool that may as well be known and labeled as Bucky's Stool because he always, _always_ sat on that one and no other. Bucky didn't turn around or glance over his shoulder, when Steve walked into the kitchen, his shoulders remaining in their tense position.

“Buck?” Steve repeated, his voice soft now as he walked around the island and into Bucky's field of view. He opened his mouth to ask if something was wrong, but something on the island caught his attention before he could get a word out.

The notebook. The one that Bucky had been keeping in his backpack and had been writing in since Steve found him.

“I want you to read it,” Bucky said, when Steve had been staring silently at it for probably too long.

“I can't do that,” Steve said, looking at Bucky.

“Why, you can't read?” Bucky teased, shooting him a little grin.

“No, jerk,” Steve said and shoved at him. “I can't do that, because it's private.”

“Steve, I literally just gave you permission to read it.”

Steve stared at him for a minute, then at the notebook for two, then back at Bucky with a small frown. “Are you sure you want me to read it?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Yes, you stupid punk,” he said and shoved the book at him. “Read it.”

Steve gave him a calculating look; the hard lines, the pinched brows, the tightly set jaw, the averting eyes... This was something Bucky was forcing himself to do, or maybe something he thought he needed to do.

Not putting up any more arguing, Steve sat down onto the stool next to Bucky and grabbed the notebook, sliding it closer to himself. He hesitated for only a brief moment, feeling Bucky's eyes on him, before he opened it and began reading.

Bucky's handwriting was messy and rushed, like he had been trying to chase down thoughts and writing them down before they disappeared. It was rushed and hard to read, but Steve managed, slowly.

There wasn't much, but there was enough to make his stomach flip upside down and to make his heart sink into the bottom of it.

He didn't even finish reading about the torture Bucky had gone through, before Steve whirled around and wrapped his arms around Bucky, pulling him into a tight and protective hug. Bucky was tense in his arms for all of five seconds, before the tension washed away and Bucky leaned into him, arms slowly snaking around Steve and hugging him back.

Neither of them said anything, but as they hugged for longer than two friends probably should, Steve glared at the wall in front of him and made a promise to himself and to Bucky and to the universe.

He was going to protect this man with his life, come hell or high waters.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rebloggable post on [tumblr](http://hoechlbutt.tumblr.com/post/156986881653).
> 
> Kudos and comments give me life. <3


	7. MEMORY

_**day twenty–six** _

  
  


Sam was glaring at Bucky. Bucky was staring at Sam. Steve was looking at his shoes, hands on his hips and a tired sigh escaping him before Sam even opened his mouth.

“That was my donut,” Sam said slowly.

Bucky said nothing and just shoved said donut into his mouth to take another obnoxiously large bite, eyes locked onto Sam as he bit down.

There was a beat of silence, then Sam said, completely flat, “I hope you step in cow turd.”

“I hope you keep bringing donuts,” Bucky said back, but his mouth was full of donut so his words came out in a muffle that Steve could only just barely understand anything of.

Steve closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation. He wasn't sure why or when it had started, but those two were complete assholes to each other. It had been funny the first few times, but now... now it was just tiring.

“Oh, I'll keep bringing donuts,” Sam said with a huff. “Just none for you.” A pause, then he added in a mutter, “Asshole.”

“I'm leaving,” Steve announced out loud and headed out of the kitchen, hurrying away from their little spat before it escalated.

“Steve!” he heard Sam call after him just as he stepped out of the kitchen and into the hall. “I hate your boyfriend, he sucks!”

Steve looked over his shoulder, ready to tell Sam that Bucky wasn't his boyfriend. But when he saw Sam turned to face him with his back to Bucky, and Bucky sticking his tongue out at Sam while flipping him off with his donut free hand, Steve forgot all about it and bit back a laugh instead.

He snickered and hurried away, before he got pulled into that whole mess.

  
  


_7:02 pm_

  
  


“'nother portion,” Bucky said as he held out his plate. There was a pause and a pointed look from Steve, before he added a mumbled, “Please.”

Sam practically flew up from his chair and reached over to the pot of stew they had eaten for dinner. But instead of taking Bucky's held out plate, he grabbed his own and poured himself another portion, despite having announced how full he was just a minute ago.

“Sorry, man,” he said, and Steve rolled his eyes, already knowing where this was going. “There's nothing left.”

Sam sat back down with a satisfied look on his face, while Bucky glared and Steve looked heavenward.

“I can't believe you're both adults,” he muttered to no one in particular. He could feel Sam's judgmental gaze on him in a second, but he chose to ignore it.

(He also chose to ignore the two of them kicking each other under the table.)

  
  


_**day twenty–eight** _

  
  


There was a rumble of a car coming from further down the dirt road, and Steve stood up straight and looked toward it. A familiar car was pulling up by the front of the house, and squinting, he could only just see a familiar flash of red hair in the driver's seat and a familiar head of blond in the passenger seat. With a wide smile on his lips, he dropped the tools in his hands and headed out of the fenced in field.

Atticus was already standing at the front of the house when the car pulled to a stop, unable to stand still and tail wagging wildly behind him as his tongue lolled out of his mouth and his ears perked. Daisy was on Steve's right as they both walked over toward the parking visitors. Steve could feel her tail start to wag as well the second the passenger door flew open and a labrador retriever jumped out and stretched.

“I didn't know you were visiting,” Steve called out, when he saw Natasha pop up from the other side of the car, her red hair hanging loosely over her shoulders and a smile on her lips when she met his eye.

“Clint insisted,” Natasha called back, her attention immediately demanded by Atticus who ran in circles around her.

Steve looked to Clint stepping out of the car, stretching and yawning. He couldn't help but roll his eyes and shake his head fondly, because of course Clint had napped in the car. The guy couldn't sit still for the near hour it took to drive here without falling asleep. Never had.

“Hey, Clint,” Steve said, moving his hands to sign his greeting as well when Clint looked at him. “Have a good nap?”

“Dude, it was the best,” Clint responded with a lazy grin, his hands moving almost automatically as he signed. His one hand dropped along his side, while his other stayed held up and out, curled into a fist. Steve smiled and bumped his own fist against Clint's.

“Is Daisy working, or can Lucky say hi?” Clint asked, pointing down at where Lucky, his service dog, was staring at Daisy and practically vibrating out of his skin.

Steve looked down to see Daisy look just about the same but much more contained. He smiled crookedly and said, “Go ahead, Daisy. Go say hi.”

Daisy and Lucky met halfway, almost falling over each other as they jumped and circled each other and sniffed. Steve huffed a laugh as they tumbled over each other in their excitement, while Clint laughed loudly and brightly and snapped a photo after digging into his pocket for his phone.

If dogs had best friends, Lucky would be Daisy's.

“So, where's this cat of yours I've been hearing so much about?” Clint asked after a pause, apropos of nothing, and Steve shot a grinning Natasha a glare.

“He has a name, you know,” he told them both, both of them shrugging in unison.

“Everyone else got to call him a cat,” Clint said. “I wanted to get in on the fun, too. Don't leave me out in the cold, Steve, pleeeease.”

Steve rolled his eyes when Clint started poking at him, repeating please over and over again like the annoying asshole he was. “Alright, fine,” he said, and Clint threw his fist up in celebration. “But he does have a name, so at least use it. Don't be rude.”

“Steven Rogers,” Clint gasped, clutching his chest with mock offense. “I would never be rude, how dare you.”

Snorting, Steve shoved at him. “Shut the fuck up, Barton,” he chuckled. “There's coffee in the house. Feel free to get some, while I fetch Bucky.”

“Aw sweet, coffee!” Clint exclaimed and sprinted to the house, Lucy darting after him.

Steve shared a look with Natasha, before they both rolled their eyes.

“Sometimes I think he loves coffee more than he loves me,” Natasha sighed, hands playing with Atticus' ears.

“Impossible,” Steve told her immediately and seriously.

Natasha would never admit it, he knew she wouldn't, but she was constantly afraid of Clint leaving her. Clint had been known to push people away, after all. She had only admitted it to Steve once, way back when over a couple of drinks and shortly after Clint had taken her out on a third date. But Steve had sworn to her, right from the start, that he would personally kick Clint's ass if he ever hurt her.

So far, he hadn't needed to kick anyone's ass. He almost had to once, when Clint went through a horrible depressive episode and pushed everyone around him away. But then Clint got better, after Natasha and Sam and Steve helped him through it, and Clint and Natasha were good.

Steve had never seen her so happy before. Despite all the hardship that came with him, Clint was a good match.

Natasha met his eye for a moment, before she smiled. “Don't get all mushy on me, Rogers,” she said, letting go of Atticus' head and letting him dart away and back to his job. “Go fetch your boyfriend.”

“Not my boyfriend,” Steve reminded her as he backed away. “You and Sam really gotta quit that.”

“And you really need to stop denying you've got a crush,” she told him with her brows raised and a teasing grin curling at her lips.

“There's nothing to deny!” A lie, Steve's pounding heart and flushing cheeks reminded him.

Natasha simply gave him a pointed look, obviously unconvinced. Steve huffed, flipped her off, and hurried away from the conversation. And to find Bucky, of course, but mostly the former.

An hour ago, Steve had seen Bucky sitting in the grassy field by the cows, so he headed there first. He only found Atticus running around the mooing cows, no Bucky in between them. Not even laying on his back on the grass and enjoying the last bit of warm weather before fall would officially take summer's place.

Instead, Steve found him by the shed, the door open and one foot inside, undoubtedly seeing the mess inside of it. Steve's new Depression Cave, credit to Natasha for the name. Steve winced in embarrassment. He had wanted to keep that messy part of him far, far away, had hoped that Bucky would never actually see it, but there they were.

Well, it was bound to happen, Steve figured with a silent sigh.

“Hey, Buck,” he said when Bucky looked over his shoulder and met his eye.

Bucky stared at him, looked back at the mess in the shed, then looked back at him with a raised brow. “What's with the mess?”

Steve sighed heavily and looked inside his Shed Of Shame. It was still as much of a mess as it was the last time he looked, which had been when he and Sam had cleared out the spare room for Bucky. Boxes were piled up along the walls, everything he hadn't dared throw out or give away or sell laying spread out all over. He could only just spot his motorcycle in the back, but that was only because he knew to look for it.

Every single thing in there made his heart hurt and drop to his stomach.

“Sam says I'm a hoarder,” he told Bucky with a crooked smile and a half shrug.

Bucky was silent for a moment, studying him carefully, before he asked, “And what would you say?”

Steve looked from the mess to Bucky, his smile slowly falling from his lips. He was a terrible liar, he knew that much, and lying to Bucky wasn't something he particularly wanted to. So, he decided to just tell him – tell him all about the things he kept stored away but couldn't get rid of for good, because, to him, it would be like letting go of the memories attached to the things.

He decided to tell him of the ghosts he so often tried to ignore and hide away, the ghosts he kept close by yet far away at the same time.

Taking in a deep and calming breath, Steve took a step into the shed and then another before he could chicken out. He stepped inside and rummaged through one of the boxes sitting on the wooden desk by the front, until he found what he had been looking for.

“Before my second tour after I became a captain, I moved into an apartment in Brooklyn,” he started. “At the time, I didn't have anyone to stay with, 'cause my mom is dead, I never knew my dad, and I couldn't impose on the guys any more than necessary. So, I had to get a place on my own.”

He pulled his hands back out of the box and with it the doormat his unit had given him as a housewarming present. It was square like any other doormat, a shield in the middle of it with a white star in the center of the shield, painted like a target. The colors of the shield (red, white, and blue, because they were assholes who had always teased him about his birthday) were muted, and across the middle of the star it said _Welcome To Rogers'_ in Jones' swirly handwriting.

“The guys in my unit liked to tease me about my reckless behavior on the field,” Steve continued, noticing Bucky step closer out of the corner of his eye but he didn't look away from the doormat. “Called me Captain Idiot or Captain Dumbass more times than I can count, constantly questioned how _I_ , of all people, managed to become _their_ captain.” He huffed, a reminiscing smile tugging at his lips. “They were good soldiers, even better men.”

He placed the doormat on top of the box and said, “They gave me this doormat because apparently they thought I needed to get a shield if I was going to go head first and fists up into every battle we had.” He paused and looked around the room briefly. “Everything in here... It's things I've gotten from people who aren't here anymore. And I know, I should get rid of some of it, because Sam's right. I am a bit of a hoarder.”

A light chuckle passed him in a huff. “I just can't get myself to let any of this go,” he finished in a lowered and softened voice.

There was a long pause where all there was was silence. Steve didn't look away from the dusty and broken and old and packed away stuff in the shed. Not until Bucky broke the prolonged silence.

“My sister,” he started in a lowered mutter, but he trailed off and didn't continue.

Steve turned to him, saw him frowning at nothing. “Yeah?” he urged him gently, turning fully to him and giving him his undivided attention.

Bucky was quiet for another moment and when he spoke, he kept his eyes on the ground and his brows pinched together. But his face slowly softened a little more and more with every word spoken.

“My sister,” he repeated, firmer this time. “Becca. She used to collect these... toys or dolls or,” he shook his head slightly, “something. Her whole room was full of 'em. She got so many, she ended up putting them all 'round the house.”

He huffed quietly, the corner of his lips quirking up into a small smile. “I used to hate them. Kept throwing them in the trash and making sure she saw me to do it, too.”

Steve couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him, a smile stuck on his lips as he watched Bucky smile to himself. “So you've always been an asshole,” he said softly.

Bucky slowly met his gaze and shrugged a shoulder. “Apparently,” he said, the smile on his lips faint and soft and sad.

“Are you sure you don't want to give her a call?” Steve asked carefully after a beat of silence. “I'm sure she'd want to see you, Buck.”

Bucky shook his head before he could say more, smile dropping from his lips and brows pinching together again. “No,” he said. “I don't want her to see me like this.”

Steve didn't tell him that he doubted Becca would care. He didn't tell him that he was positive she would just be happy that her brother was alive. He didn't tell him that she would be overjoyed to see him, no matter what. No, because he got it. He could never fully understand because he had never been in a situation quite like Bucky's, but he did get why Bucky wouldn't want her to see him, at least not yet.

So Steve just nodded and let it go. He opened his mouth to ask Bucky to come inside and meet Clint and say hi to Natasha, both of them still waiting inside for them, but Bucky cut him off.

“You got a bike?” he asked, nodding and gesturing over at the motorcycle hidden behind the mess. Well, sort of hidden. The front wheel and the handlebars were still visible, the rest covered and hidden away.

Steve followed his gaze and looked at the motorcycle as well, that same sad and reminiscing smile back on his lips in a second. “Yeah,” he said with a soft sigh. “Well, it was my mom's. I just inherited it when she passed away.”

Bucky was silent, and Steve continued. “No one really expected my mom to have a motorcycle, because she was so sweet and loving and kind, always helping people even when she wasn't paid for it. She was a nurse,” he added, shooting Bucky a quick glance before his eyes returned to the bike. “But, my mom liked to break stereotypes. She was an amazing person.”

He paused, then added in an almost whisper, “I haven't ridden it in years.”

Bucky hummed quietly behind him. “You should,” he said after a moment, and Steve looked at him, saw him shrugging nonchalantly with a little grin pulling at his lips. “Bikes are hot, Steve. You on it would only make it hotter.”

Steve blinked and stared at him. “Was that flirting?” he asked after a beat, his tone teasing, as was the grin on his lips, but his heart was pounding and his cheeks were warm with a blush.

Bucky stared back at him. “Maybe.”

There was a tense silence between them; a silence where neither looked away and where neither made a move, even though Steve felt like he should. The tension between them felt like a quiet question, a quiet challenge hanging between them, and who was Steve to back down from a challenge?

But before he could do more than think about closing the gap between him and Bucky and kiss him like he so badly wanted to, Bucky cracked a toothy grin and let out a laugh.

And Steve felt like he'd been punched in the gut.

Not from rejection, no. He suddenly didn't care that Bucky had apparently been joking. It felt like a punch to the gut, because Bucky's laugh was the most beautiful and heartwarming thing Steve had ever heard. It was the most beautiful sound, and Steve silently made it his life's mission to hear that laughter as often as humanly possible.

Steve found himself smiling, while Bucky's laughter slowly faded out into a chuckle, a toothy grin stuck on his face. With a huff of his own, Steve reached out to punch Bucky's shoulder. “Jerk,” he said.

“Punk,” Bucky replied, punching back. It was nothing more than a light tap with his right hand, before the fist opened and Bucky put his palm to Steve's chest just for a brief, lingering moment.

Steve cleared his throat, grabbed Bucky's shoulder, and dragged him with him out of the shed, all the while ignoring the heat in his cheeks. “Come on,” he said, trying not to think too much about how willingly Bucky let him guide him out. “I've got a friend who wants to meet you.”

Clint was downing (what looked to be) freshly brewed coffee straight from the pot, when Steve stepped into the kitchen with Bucky by his side. Daisy and Lucky were playing in the living room, he could hear them tussling around in there, and Natasha was sat by the island, watching Clint with a fond and slightly judgmental look on her face.

But when the two of them stepped inside, she turned and looked at them. “Hey,” she said after a beat, eyes on Bucky.

“Hey,” Bucky responded with a quick nod, which was a definite improvement from their last encounter where he had just been silent.

Steve walked around the island and over to Clint, putting a hand on his shoulder to grab his attention. Clint lowered the pot from his lips, licked the coffee from them, and turned toward him, smacking his lips almost childishly but Steve knew that was on purpose.

“Clint,” he said, lifting his hands to sign. “This is Bucky.” He spelled Bucky's name out carefully, before he turned to Bucky and gestured to Clint. “Bucky, this is Clint. Coffee addict and human disaster.”

“You know I can read lips, right?” Clint asked, deadpan.

Steve smiled innocently and shrugged.

Clint made a face at him, before he turned to Bucky and put on a toothy smile. “Hey, man,” he said and stepped closer to him. “Good to finally meet you.”

“You too,” Bucky said.

Clint looked over at Steve and with a wide and teasing grin, he signed, _He's hot!_ and waggled his brows.

Natasha snorted loudly and grossly, and Steve gave him an unimpressed look. Although... well, he wasn't wrong.

“Uh,” Bucky started when Clint looked back at him. “Sorry. I don't... I don't sign.”

Clint waved a dismissive hand. “Don't worry about it, bro,” he said with an easy smile. “Just make sure I can see your lips- God _damn_ , those are some pretty lips, holy shit.”

Steve and Natasha both face palmed at the exact same time, while a slow grin slowly pulled Bucky's lips back, and Clint tried to backpedal his way out of his slip up, which only made him dig himself deeper and deeper and deeper into a hole. He kept going until Natasha went over and put a hand over his mouth to make him shut up, but by then, Bucky was already shaking with silent laughter.

And Steve was looking at him with hearts in his eyes, something that both Natasha and Clint were going to tease him about for the rest of his life, he was sure of it. But he didn't care. Bucky was laughing, that was all that mattered at the moment.

Clint and Bucky got along like a house on fire. Every joke or stupid thing Clint said or did had Bucky snorting or chuckling or laughing, and the two of them ended up in the living room with Daisy and Lucky.

Steve tried to swallow down his jealousy at how well they got along, but he didn't do a good enough job. Natasha caught on immediately and was there in an instant, slipping under his arm and wrapping her own around his middle to squeeze him.

Afternoon became evening, and Bucky and Clint ended up laid out on the floor with Lucky and Atticus, while Steve, with Daisy in his lap, and Natasha sat on the couch. The television was on, playing a movie that Natasha had picked out, but Steve wasn't paying attention to it.

He was too busy watching Bucky, wanting to remember his smile and laugh for as long as he lived and breathed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rebloggable post on [tumblr](http://hoechlbutt.tumblr.com/post/156986881653).
> 
> Kudos and comments give me life. Thank you for reading, you guys are the best. <3


	8. LIGHT

_**day thirty–two** _

  
  


Bucky was wearing one of Steve's shirts. And _again_ , it was one Steve hadn't given him. This one was still long sleeved, because Bucky apparently wasn't comfortable with wearing short sleeved shirts just yet. It was gray with a simple, artistic print on the chest. Steve hadn't worn it in ages, probably couldn't even fit in it anymore, but Bucky could.

There was something warm and comforting in seeing someone else wearing his clothes, Steve had to admit. Something that felt domestic and good, especially since the same person lived with him and the same person was the person he was possibly, maybe, mostly likely, definitely starting to fall for.

If he hadn't fallen already, which, according to Sam and Natasha and Clint, he had. Steve almost couldn't deny it.

But Bucky was his own man, and he couldn't keep wearing Steve's clothes. No matter how much Steve liked seeing him in them, he had to get his own clothes and his own things sooner or later. It had already been going on for way too long.

“Buck,” Steve said as he leaned against the door frame of Bucky's room, crossing his arms over his chest. Bucky was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Atticus' head in his lap, both of them having just woken up. “Come to town with me today. It would be good for you to get out a little, and we can get you some of your own clothes, finally.”

Without looking up from Atticus grunting softly in his lap, Bucky said, “I've already got clothes.”

“ _My_ clothes,” Steve pointed out. “That you keep stealing out of my closet.”

“You didn't seem to have a problem with it 'til now,” Bucky said with a casual shrug and finally met his gaze. “You don't want me wearing your clothes anymore?”

“I just want you to have your own things, Bucky,” Steve said softly.

A glint appeared in Bucky's eyes, a near teasing one. “So, you're saying you do want me in your clothes?”

“That's not...” Steve cut himself off when he saw the teasing grin slowly curling at the corner of Bucky's lips, and he flushed. “Shut the fuck up, jerk, and come with me into town.” He paused, then added, “Please.”

Bucky's face fell almost immediately, his eyes falling down onto Atticus in his lap. “What if,” he started after a hesitating moment. “What if someone recognizes me?”

Steve watched him for a moment, watched as his shoulders slumped and his head hung and he slowly curled in on himself. An idea popped into Steve's head only seconds later, and he said a quick, “Give me a minute,” before he walked down the hall to his own room.

He searched through his closet only briefly, before he found what he was looking for; a simple, navy blue baseball cap that he hadn't used in a while. When he returned to Bucky's room, he stepped inside and crouched down in front of Bucky, putting the cap onto his head and tugging it down with a soft smile on his lips.

“There we go,” he said, flicking the brim lightly.

Bucky blinked up at him, then he huffed. “What, you didn't have a mask I could use?”

“I do,” Steve said. “But I think a Halloween mask would attract more attention than this.”

Bucky hummed quietly and tugged down the cap a bit more. “Yeah, you might be right.”

Smiling softly, Steve asked, “So, you're gonna come with me then?”

Bucky sighed, mock exasperated, and dropped his hand onto Atticus. “Fine.”

  
  


_11:24 am_

  
  


“Clint says he wants to help you pick out, and I quote, some “sweet clothes”,” Steve said with a small huff when Bucky hopped into the passenger seat of the pickup truck. Daisy was sitting in Steve's lap, vest on and leash wrapped around his hand, and his phone was in his other hand, Clint's text open.

> **[** 11:20 AM **] Clint** : bro i wanna help teh b uck cat pick out sweeet cloths !!

Bucky closed the door, strapped himself in, and leaned back in the seat while adjusting the cap on his head. “Okay,” he said after a beat.

Steve offered him a quick glance, noticed his tense posture and his clenched jaw. Carefully, he reached out to place a hand on Bucky's shoulder, giving him a comforting squeeze and a reassuring smile when he looked his way. “It'll be fine,” he promised him. “You've got both me and Daisy watching your back, trust me.”

Bucky looked at him for a moment, and when he gave a quick and jerky nod, Steve took his hand off his shoulder and replied to Clint.

< **[** 11:25 AM **] Steve** : We'll be in town in an hour. Meet us outside Thor's.

> **[** 11:25 AM **] Clint** : rad [sunglasses emoji]

With a fond shake of his head, Steve pocketed his phone after shifting around under Daisy. He turned to Bucky and asked, “Would you be okay with Daisy being in your lap? Can't really drive like this.” He gestured to where Daisy was firmly in his lap, head turned and eyes watching through the front window.

Bucky gave him a long and pointed look. “How is that even a question?” he asked. “No, Steve, I don't want a dog in my lap.” He scoffed. “Idiot.”

Steve shoved at him. “Jerk,” he said, then nudged Daisy over to Bucky's side. She didn't hesitate to make herself comfortable there, body laying firmly in Bucky's lap while her head rested on Steve's thighs, carefully out of the way of the gear.

While Steve drove off, Bucky fiddled with the music. It took him five minutes and several judgmental looks that Steve chose to ignore before he found something he liked.

  
  


_12:29 pm_

  
  


Clint was stood outside Thor's Cafe when Steve parked in front of it, to-go coffee cup in his hand and purple sunglasses resting on top of his head despite the sun being hidden behind gray clouds. Lucky was sitting by his side, leash rolled around his closed fist.

He was looking across the road, didn't seem to notice them as Steve parked the truck on the sidewalk by Thor's. Steve guessed he wasn't wearing his hearing aids either, he so rarely was, but when Steve stepped out of the truck and Daisy jumped out of Bucky's lap and out the truck, Lucky finally noticed them.

Lucky nudged at Clint, before he turned toward them and wagged his tail, tongue lolling out of his mouth happily. Steve raised a hand in greeting, when Clint finally turned and saw them, a wide and toothy smile on his face as he waved back with his coffee carrying hand.

Steve was surprised he didn't spill anything, despite the lid still being on. He'd seen something like it happen before, it wasn't impossible. Not with Clint. No, Clint once managed to spill an entire bucket of freshly milked milk without even touching the bucket. Spilling his coffee with the lid still on wasn't as impossible as it probably should be.

Clint Barton, ladies and gentlemen and those in between. Human Disaster™.

Steve got Daisy's leash wrapped around his hand and curled it into a fist around it, Daisy stretching briefly before standing at attention on his left side. He then looked back into the truck and saw Bucky sit stock still, head bowed down and cap pulled further down his eyes as he seemed to sink into his seat.

“You coming, Buck?” Steve asked gently, offering him a reassuring smile when he glanced his way. “Nothing's gonna happen, I promise. Not on my watch.”

Bucky stared at him, sat still for another brief moment, before he gave a jerky nod and got out of the truck as well. The second he was out and the door was closed behind him, he stuffed both hands into the pockets of his jacket ( _Steve's_ jacket, actually) and ducked his head, his shoulders up to his ears and tense.

Steve said nothing about it, but his heart clenched and a frown was stuck on his lips as he walked around the truck and up beside him. He placed his free hand on Bucky's arm, gave it a squeeze, and smiled at him, silently promising to protect him.

Bucky said nothing either, just gave a forced smile in return. Steve squeezed his arm once more, before he turned to Clint who walked over to them.

“Hey, bros,” Clint greeted them with a crooked grin. He held up his fist to Steve, and Steve bumped his own with it. “You ready to go pick out some sweet clothes of your own?” he asked Bucky. “I mean, you look good in Steve's clothes, but he's only got old man clothes. You can do way better than that, man.”

“Thanks,” Steve said dryly. He rolled his eyes at them, when Bucky huffed a laugh. “I'm gonna stick my head in,” he said, gesturing to the cafe, “and say hi to Thor real quick, then we can go.”

“Cool beans,” said Clint and raised his cup to take a swig – apparently scolding his tongue in the process.

Thor's Cafe was fairly crowded when Steve stepped inside, and he swallowed thickly at the amount of people and noise that crashed over him the second he stepped inside. Daisy nudged against him gently, and he took a second to inhale, exhale slowly, before he stepped over toward the counter, where he saw a familiar woman already smiling brightly at him and waving him over.

“What's up, Cap?” Darcy greeted him with a wide and toothy grin.

“Hey, Darcy,” he greeted back with a small smile, Daisy's tail wagging against his leg. “Is Thor around?”

Darcy nodded and held up a finger, as she pulled herself up on the tips of her toes and looked around the busy cafe. Steve followed her eyes around the place. They seemed to spot the man in question about the same time, because Steve saw a tall and familiar blond the split second before Darcy called out, “Yo, Odinson!”

Thor whirled around, already smiling widely, but the smile only grew wider when he met Steve's eyes. “Steven!” he called out and strode through the small group of people between him and them, his arms held out wide as if he was going in for a hug. But Thor knew Steve and knew how he felt about his personal space out in public, so there was no embrace.

“Hey, Thor,” Steve greeted him with a smile, Daisy's tail wagging roughly against his leg but she stood obediently still by his side. “Is it okay if I park out front for a few hours?”

“Of course, my friend,” Thor said immediately. He looked out through the front window and asked, “Is that your boy Bucky that I've heard so much about from Natasha and Samuel?”

Steve turned and followed his gaze out the window. Bucky was stood completely still and Clint was talking animatedly with his hands signing rapidly and too quick for even Steve to follow or figure out what he was going on about.

Bucky wasn't looking at Clint, though. No, he was looking right back at Steve, and Steve offered him a quick smile that wasn't returned.

“Not my boy,” Steve said to Thor, “but yeah, that's Bucky.”

“Not your boy, my ass,” he heard Darcy mutter, and he send her a warning look, one that she returned with a sweet and innocent smile.

“He does not look comfortable,” Thor noted, a small furrow between his brows.

Steve hummed quietly in agreement, because Bucky really didn't look comfortable. He looked tense and alert. “Well, it is his first time out in,” he paused, then shrugged, “hell, I don't even know how long. He's getting better, though.”

Thor nodded silently, then held up a hand and rounded the counter. “Does he like coffee?” he asked, already grabbing a to-go cup before Steve even answered.

“Uh, he doesn't really drink it, I don't think,” Steve said. Bucky was more of a juice drinker, actually. Steve had run out four times since Bucky moved in, and he never used to buy more than one carton every once in a while.

“Hot chocolate, then,” Thor decided brightly and filled the cup with steaming warm chocolate.

When Steve stepped back out of the busy cafe and into the fresh air that didn't feel like it was suffocating him, he had a warm cup of hot chocolate in one hand and a croissant in the other, both of which he handed to Bucky. “Thor says hi,” he said, smiling.

Bucky stared at both things for a long minute, before he tentatively reached out with his right hand to first grab the croissant. He stuffed it in his mouth, then grabbed the hot chocolate with the same hand, keeping the left one tugged away securely. “Thanks,” he muttered around the croissant.

“Aw, man,” Clint whined. “Now I want a croissant too.”

Steve rolled his eyes at him, grabbed a hold onto Bucky's shoulder, and said, “Come on, let's go find some clothes.”

  
  


_1:14 pm_

  
  


“Oh my God, this one's perfect!” Clint exclaimed loudly.

They were in a fairly vacant clothing store, Steve carrying the one bag of pants they had managed to get for Bucky – all of them were sweatpants, since Bucky had scowled at him when Steve had tried to get him to try on some jeans in the previous store, and Steve had just decided to not push him.

Steve turned away from the one rack of sweatshirts he had been shifting through, and looked over at where Clint was grinning widely and holding up a shirt, showing it off to Bucky who stood closely next to Steve. He hadn't been more than a few steps away from him this whole time, and Steve didn't mind it.

The shirt Clint was holding up was short sleeved and dark gray in color. On the front was a print of a sausage with stick arms and legs and a cartoon face on, and above it read _I'm a weiner!_ in red letters to match the color of the sausage.

“Get it?” Clint peeked over the shirt to grin widely and teasingly at them. “'Cause you're the Weiner Soldier, eh?”

Steve quickly and immediately bit back the laugh that threatened to spill, and instead he glared at Clint. He worried that it was way too soon to make any sort of jokes regarding that, worried that Clint was being insensitive, and he was about to open his mouth to tell him off.

But then there was a snort to his right, and he turned to see Bucky chuckling quietly to himself.

“Should get you a parrot shirt, then,” Bucky said as he stepped over to snatch the shirt away from Clint. “'Cause you're as annoying as one.”

The worry in Steve's chest faded away, and he allowed himself to laugh a little while Clint made an offended noise and clutched at his chest.

“Excuse you, dickhead,” Clint said. “I'm a hawk, actually.”

Bucky bought the shirt. Or more correctly, Steve bought it for him. Clint grinned widely and proudly.

  
  


_1:59 pm_

  
  


They were walking down the street, Steve with two bags in the hand that wasn't holding Daisy's leash and Clint with another in his free hand. Bucky was walking glued to Steve's side, their shoulders brushing as they walked. Both of his hands were still buried in his pockets and his head was bowed, cap shadowing his face. His shoulders weren't as tense as they were when they first came into town, but he still wasn't relaxed.

He was also slowly getting more and more grumpy, Steve was starting to notice as Clint talked away, his hands flying around as he signed along. Steve was about to ask Bucky if he wanted to go home, but a familiar voice from behind them cut him off before he could even open his mouth.

“Steven Grant Rogers!”

Steve froze mid-step, and Bucky tensed up immediately. Clint was still talking for another few steps, but when he realized neither of them were moving anymore, he stopped talking and turned around to look at them.

Slowly and with his face scrunched up into a grimace, Steve turned around and smiled nervously at the woman standing with her hands on her hips in front of an open diner door. “Hey, Angie,” he greeted, hunching down a little under her stern look.

Angie looked at him silently for only a moment, before she walked over toward them. And the closer she got, the less of a motherly stare she gave him and the more of a smile grew on her lips. “You are a little shit,” she told him when she was close enough, shaking her head at him. “I haven't heard from you in over a month.”

“Sorry,” Steve apologized immediately, offering her a little smile as he relaxed. “I've been,” he shot Bucky a quick glance, “kinda busy.”

Angie looked at Bucky as well, Bucky with his head ducked down and shoulder tense. “This is Bucky?” she asked, looking him over slowly.

Steve nodded and said, “Yeah, this is Bucky.”

“Damn, Steve,” she said, a grin slowly curling at the corners of her lips. “You sure know how to pick the hot ones.”

Clint laughed, Bucky looked up from his own two feet, and Steve flushed immediately, his eyes going wide while Angie's grin grew.

“Angie!” he exclaimed, trying to will down the flush. “You're married.”

“Yes, and I'm also way too old and a huge lesbian,” Angie said calmly, reaching out to pat his chest. “Calm down.” She looked at Bucky, meeting his careful gaze, and smiled kindly at him. “He gets pretty jealous, this one,” she told him, pointing to Steve. “Make sure to show him he has nothing to worry about.”

“We're not,” Steve started to protest, but Bucky interrupted when he tightly said, “Yes, ma'am.”

Angie's smile widened. “Good.”

Ignoring his pounding heart and his warm cheeks, Steve asked, “Where's Peggy?”

“Inside,” Angie answered, gesturing toward the diner she had stepped out of. “Enjoying a nice cup of coffee.”

“How's she doing?” he asked, his brows pinching together with worry. Peggy had been doing worse and worse the older she got, and Steve was rapidly getting more and more worried about her. There may be a gap of a good fifty years between them, but she was an important person to him, and he was afraid to lose her.

“Bit up and down,” Angie said with a small and sad smile. “Some days are better than others. Today, though. Today is a good day. But, you could just go ask her yourself, you know.”

Steve took his eyes off of Angie and looked toward the diner window. There, behind a couple smiling at each other by the front, he could see a familiar head of gray hair styled in curls. He looked at what of Peggy he could see for a good minute, before he turned his attention to Bucky.

Bucky was already looking back at him, a curious look in his eyes. Steve raised his brows in a silent question, and apparently Bucky understood, because he nodded shortly a moment later.

“You wanna come with?” Steve asked. “Meet another one of my friends? If you're up for it.”

Bucky considered him for a second, then he nodded and said, “Yeah. Okay.”

Steve offered him a smile, grateful not to go in alone. Angie was there, sure, and he had Daisy to keep him grounded and anchored in the present, but with Bucky it was different. With Bucky, he felt like he wasn't as alone as he sometimes felt, even when he was surrounded by friends and even when Daisy curled up around him.

“Clint?” he asked and turned to Clint. Clint had pulled his phone out and was furiously texting with a fond smile on his lips. Steve knew that look. It was his Natasha look, and he couldn't help the soft smile that curled at his own lips as he watched.

He waited patiently, while Lucky did his job and nudged at Clint to let him know his name had been said. It took probably a second too long, before Clint lifted his gaze from his phone, looked around, and then finally looked back at Steve. “Huh, what?”

Angie tutted and shook her head, and Steve let out a little huff of a laugh. “Do you want to come say hi to Peggy with me and Bucky?” he asked, raising his hands to sign as well, just in case.

“Nah, I'm good,” Clint said with a dismissive wave, Lucky's leash nearly shooting out of his hand but at least his reflexes weren't too bad and he caught it easily. “I'm gonna go meet up with Kate and Nat at the range, if we're done with the shopping?”

Steve looked to Bucky, Bucky looked back and shrugged. “Yeah, I think so,” Steve told Clint with a nod. “Say hi to them from me, will ya?”

“Aye aye, Captain,” Clint said with a grin and bumped his fist to Steve's offered one, handing the bag of clothes over to him. He reached up to flick the brim of Bucky's cap, getting a grunt in response, before he raised his hand in a silent farewell to Angie and turned to walk down the street, Lucky trotting along beside him.

Peggy wasn't looking in their direction when they stepped into the diner. She looked old and frail, but better than the last time Steve had seen her. She hadn't been able to get out of bed that day, but she hadn't forgotten anything either. Angie had assured him that that was a good thing, even when she couldn't get out of bed.

“Hey, English, look who I found!” Angie said as they stepped over, and it was only then that Peggy looked up from her cup of coffee. And the moment her eyes met Steve's, a wide and bright smile spread across her face. She moved to stand instantly.

“Steve,” she said with a chuckle, while Steve stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her in a friendly hug. She hugged him back as tightly as she could. “Oh, I have missed you.”

“I've missed you too, Peggy,” Steve told her, ducking his head a little as he hugged her just a little bit tighter. He squeezed her once more, before he stepped back and smiled at her. “You look good.”

“Now, Steve,” said Peggy and patted his cheek. “I am still happily married.”

Steve snapped his fingers. “Darn it,” he said, the smile on his lips only growing when he heard Bucky huff behind him and Angie chuckle beside them. “You let me know if that changes though, right?”

“Oh, certainly,” Peggy promised with a nod.

“Over my dead body, Rogers,” Angie said and stepped up to wrap an arm around her wife's waist. “We've been together for almost fifty years now, I'm not about to let go of her just because some handsome, young man keeps hitting on her.”

Steve laughed softly, while Peggy hummed and leaned in to share a quick but sweet kiss with Angie. “I'm afraid she's right,” she said, smiling at Angie. “We have fought too much for this to just let it go so easy.” She turned back to Steve, her featured softening and the teasing glint in her eyes disappearing when she looked behind him. “And who is this young man?”

Steve turned and followed her gaze to Bucky who stood awkwardly behind them, shifting as he looked from Steve to Peggy and back again and again. Steve smiled at him and reached out for him. “This,” he said and lightly grabbed onto his elbow to pull him closer, “is Bucky. Bucky, meet Peggy Carter.”

Bucky looked from Steve to Peggy, and Steve looked at her as well. Peggy was looking at Bucky, her gaze assessing and there she was. The Peggy Carter he knew so well, the one who stood tall and strong and took no shit from anyone. She never had, not even when she was young and in the army in a time where no one wanted her to be.

It took barely a second, before she smiled and offered Bucky her hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Bucky,” she said softly.

Bucky looked down at the offered hand for a prolonged moment, and then slowly pulled his right hand out of his pocket to shake it. “You too,” he said.

Peggy gave Bucky another calculating look, before she met Steve's eye and smiled softly at him. She didn't need to say anything, he knew what that look meant. He flushed a little and ducked his head, the corners of his lips threatening to tug back into a bashful smile.

Angie beckoned the two of them to sit down for just a few minutes. Bucky sat tense and quiet by Steve's right, while Steve caught up with Angie and Peggy. Daisy laid herself down to his left, her leash still wrapped tightly around his fist and her head resting on his feet. They talked only briefly about Angie and Peggy's daughter, Sharon, who was expecting to be a mom for the second time and still kicking ass at CIA.

“She's almost as badass as her mom,” Angie told him with a proud smile on her lips.

“Oh please,” Peggy huffed. “She is far more amazing than I ever was.”

“Don't make me fight you, Peggy,” Steve threatened, smiling a little when Peggy chuckled. “You are an amazing person, you always have been.”

“She doesn't need the ego boost, Steve, thank you,” Angie cut in before he could continue.

Steve laughed, as did Peggy.

Bucky sat quietly and just listened to their friendly conversation. Steve didn't try to rope him into it, didn't try to get him to join in. He just gave him some space to breathe and lose the tension in his shoulders. Although, after Bucky had sat almost frigidly for too long, Steve reached out and gently laid a hand on his thigh, just above his knee.

And in a single breath, Bucky relaxed. Steve kept his hand there until they left, squeezing Bucky's thigh every time he started getting tense again. It was a casual reminder that he was there, a reminder that he was safe and that Steve would protect him if anything happened.

Bucky was quiet for all of four minutes into the car ride home, before he started fiddling with the music and, this time, verbally judged Steve for his music taste.

Steve didn't stop laughing and smiling for the whole car ride. Bucky laughed too, while Daisy fell asleep in Bucky's lap.

  
  


_**day thirty–four** _

  
  


Bucky was wearing one of his shirts again.

Steve froze in the doorway to the living room, gave him a quick once over, before he raised his brows and gave him a look that silently said, “Really?”

Bucky just grinned at him unapologetically.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rebloggable post on [tumblr](http://hoechlbutt.tumblr.com/post/156986881653).
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been reading so far, and thank you for every single comment. It means a lot to me. <3


	9. PLEASURE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally earning that mature rating, heyoo.

_**day forty** _

  
  


His arms were sore as he raised them above his head, his grip around the shaft of the axe tight in both hands. His arms were sore as he swung the axe back down, and his arms were sore as the axe sliced through the wood and lodged itself into the tree stump below.

Steve let the shaft fall out of his hands with a heavy sigh, running the back of his hand over his sweaty forehead, before he bend down to pick up the sliced firewood now on the grassy ground below. He tossed both pieces into the slowly building pile in the basket a few feet away from him, then he pulled the axe back out of the stump and got started on another piece.

The temperature was dropping rapidly, fall having just poked its head out and threatening cold weather sooner rather than later. The fireplace in his living room was begging to be used again, and Steve was going to feed it some of the firewood he had neglected chopping for far too long.

Another chop and another toss, and then Steve placed his hands on his hips and let out a tired sigh. He eyed the small pile of firewood left to chop, before he turned and looked to the porch.

Bucky was sitting cross-legged on the edge of it. Daisy was to his right, laying down with her head resting on her paws and her ears perked and attention on Steve, and Atticus was laying to Bucky's left, snoring loudly and head in his lap, a metal hand carefully running through his short fur.

And Bucky – Bucky was watching Steve.

Steve couldn't make out his features exactly, not with the distance between them, but he could feel eyes on him that weren't only Daisy's. Ignoring the way his heart beat under Bucky's intense stare and with a little smile pulling at his lips, he raised a hand in a silent greeting, before he picked up the axe and went back to work.

The basket was full to the brim and then some, when Steve finally decided to stop, letting the axe fall from his hands and lodge itself into the stump. His arms were sore, but he only groaned internally as he picked up the basket and headed back toward the house.

Bucky wasn't sitting on the porch anymore, he noticed as he took the two steps up to it. Atticus was laid out on his back, grunting softly in his sleep, and Daisy rose to her paws the moment Steve was over by her, stretching and yawning before following him inside.

Bucky wasn't in the living room either, when Steve stepped inside and put the basket down by the fireplace. The dusty fireplace, he quietly noted as he stood back up straight. He should probably clean the entire house a bit more thoroughly the next time, he decided as he stretched his arms above his head and groaned when his back made a satisfying pop.

His arms dropped to his sides, and he heard soft footsteps coming up behind him. Had it been a bit over a month ago, Steve would have turned around and prepared himself for a fight, but after living with Bucky for a while now, he no longer felt the need to be alert.

There was a hand on his elbow, grabbing him and turning him around, and he found himself going willingly. When he came face to face with Bucky, he instantly noticed the determined look on his face, and he opened his mouth to ask him what was wrong.

But he never got a word out, before there were two hands – one warm and real, another cool and metal – cupping his face.

And in the next moment, Bucky was kissing him.

Steve took in a shuttering breath of surprise at the feeling of Bucky's soft lips pressing against his own, his heart flying into his throat at the feeling of Bucky's hands holding him, and heat rushing to his face at the feeling of Bucky pressed so close to him.

It took him a full three seconds, before his brain decided to kick back in gear.

His hands found Bucky's hips, and he pulled him impossibly closer, while he kissed him back, earning him a near moan from Bucky. Desperate to hear it again, Steve tilted his head to the right and kissed him more firmly. This time, there was no near about it. Bucky moaned and kissed him back just as firmly.

They kissed and kissed, hands desperately pulling each other closer and touching anywhere they could reach, and Steve's heart was just about to burst out of his chest.

It didn't feel real. Something this good, this perfect, this incredible couldn't possibly be real. But it was real, Bucky's little noises and moans and the feeling of his lips moving against his own reminded him. It was real, and it was happening.

Kissing Bucky was... Steve didn't even know how to describe it. It was everything he'd ever imagined and so much more. And he had imagined it. Multiple times, in fact. But he never let himself indulge in it too much, never let himself even think about acting on anything he was feeling, because Bucky needed to be the one to make the first move.

It was that thought, and the need to take a breath, that made Steve pull back. “I don't wanna take advantage,” he whispered against Bucky's lips, words spilling out in a rush as he breathed.

“You're not,” Bucky told him with a small shake of his head, before he dove back in for another kiss.

Steve cut this one short too and said, “But you're still recovering-”

“Steve,” Bucky interrupted and leaned back far enough to make eye contact. The look on his face was stern. “ _I_ kissed _you_. I made the first move. You're not taking advantage of me, I want this.”

“But,” Steve started again, but Bucky didn't let him finish.

“They never let me decide what I wanted,” he said, and Steve promptly shut up, his heart sinking. Bucky didn't even have to say who _they_ were, Steve already knew. “They never let me have anything, they just used me. For years, I haven't been able to decide what I want, but I get to now, because I'm free.”

Steve's heart ached and warmed at the small smile that appeared on Bucky's lips, a smile of his own slowly pulling at his lips.

Bucky leaned closer, brushing their noses against each other as he continued. “I'm a grown ass man,” he said. “I know what I want and I have never wanted anything more than I want you, Stevie.”

A pause, then he shrugged a shoulder and added, “Except maybe ice cream, but you're a close second.”

Steve laughed and kissed him. Bucky was smiling when he kissed him back, the hands cupping Steve's face slowly sliding around to the back of his head as they pressed close together again.

They kissed and kissed and kissed, and Steve started feeling a heat building in his stomach when Bucky shifted against him. He did it again, and this time, Steve couldn't help the moan that spilled from his lips. The kiss deepened, tongues mingled, and the heat spread.

There was no way Steve could hide how hard he was getting just from a bit of friction and kissing, and he found that he didn't want to either. He didn't shy away from the shifting that turned to lazy grinding, especially not when he felt Bucky grow hard against his thigh too.

“Bedroom,” Bucky breathed against his lips, his fingers, both metal and real, tangling in Steve's hair.

“Who says we're doing anything more than kissing?” Steve asked teasingly, nipping at Bucky's lips.

“Your dick is,” Bucky said flatly and pushed their hips together, giving another lazy grind.

Steve bit back the moan that threatened to spill, and instead he leaned back to look at Bucky seriously. “Doesn't mean we have to do anything,” he said.

Steve wasn't going to pressure him into anything. It didn't matter how turned on he was, he wasn't about to do anything without Bucky's full and honest consent. Bucky didn't owe him anything.

Bucky looked at him in silence for a moment, then he licked his reddened lips and asked, in a quiet voice, “What if I want to, though?”

Steve swallowed past the lump in his throat and snaked his arms around Bucky's middle, pulling him closer even though they were already pressed chest to chest, hips to hips. “Then we can,” he whispered and leaned in to offer Bucky's lips a quick but soft kiss, “and I'll make you feel good.”

Bucky let out a shuttering breath that ghosted over Steve's lips and returned the kiss almost hungrily. “Bedroom,” he mumbled between kisses. “Now.”

Steve raised his hands to cup Bucky's face and kissed him once, twice, three times more before he finally stepped back. There was a bright flush over Bucky's cheeks, his lips red and pupils dilated. There was an obvious bulge between his legs, a dazed look on his face, and Steve knew he had to look just about the same himself.

“Daisy, stay,” he ordered quickly as he grabbed Bucky's hand and dragged him toward the stairs. Daisy immediately laid down on the ground with a harrumph and didn't follow.

Bucky followed him willingly and gripped his hand back, shifting until their fingers were intertwined. Steve's heart warmed as he squeezed his hand, and Bucky squeezed back.

Bucky made sure to make it as difficult as possible to walk up the stairs; constantly pressing against Steve and kissing his neck and stopping him to make out against the wall and sliding his free hand down his back and touching his ass and everything that made Steve's knees weak.

_A menace_ , Steve silently thought as Bucky pushed him against the wall next to Steve's bedroom door and shoved his tongue down his throat.

_A goddamn menace_ , Steve thought as Bucky shoved him against the closed bedroom door after they finally stumbled their way inside.

Bucky was on him in an instant, kissing him deeply and hungrily, and Steve kissed him back enthusiastically, shoving a thigh between Bucky's legs, and they moved against each other together. Bucky moaned into the kiss and shoved his right hand under Steve's shirt, touching up along his abdomen.

“Off,” Bucky muttered against his lips.

“You're gonna have to step back, then,” Steve muttered back, sliding both hands behind Bucky to grab his ass and pull him closer, grinding against him.

Bucky moaned and pushed back against his hands, breath ghosting over his lips. “Gonna have to let go of my ass, then,” he retorted breathlessly, but he didn't struggle to get free.

Steve hummed quietly and kissed his jaw softly, nipping at his neck while his hands tightened their grip on Bucky's ass briefly. “Fine,” he finally said after an exaggerated sigh and slowly, he lifted his hands off and away.

Bucky stayed pressed against him for another long moment, but then he stepped back and deliberately dragged his hand down Steve's stomach while biting his lip and giving him a look that made Steve feel like he was about to get eaten alive.

Not that he would mind that. Not if it was by Bucky.

Steve pushed himself off from the door and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside carelessly. His arms were still sore from chopping wood, the movement reminded him, but he found that he couldn't give less of a shit about that at the moment.

Not when Bucky was running his hands (both of them) over his bare torso, cupping his pecs and touching any- and everywhere on his bare skin.

“Shit, ангел,” he breathed as his hands came back to his chest, resting there. “Look at you.”

The Russian that had slipped Bucky's lips sounded almost English, and Steve flushed a bright pink. “Did you just call me angel?” he asked, shivering under Bucky's touch.

With a soft hum, Bucky moved closer and kissed him briefly. “Yeah,” he said, moving his kisses down his neck after nuzzling their cheeks together briefly, his stubble rough against Steve's beard. “When you found me in the barn... Fuck, Stevie, you looked like an angel.”

“I had a shotgun pointed at your face,” Steve reminded him, tilting his head back and to the side to give Bucky more room.

“An angel who was armed, then.” Bucky nipped at his chin, and Steve dipped his head down to meet his lips for a brief kiss. “You looked like an angel,” Bucky whispered against his lips. “Turned out, you actually are one.”

Steve felt heat go straight to his face, knew his beard did nothing to hide it. He'd always been a full body flusher, his chest going pink at Bucky's words. “You're quite the sweet talker, huh?” he let out in a breath, swallowing thickly when Bucky dipped his head down to kiss his chest.

Bucky hummed against his skin, pressed a few more kisses along his chest, then leaned back and looked him over. A warm and flesh-and-bone hand ran up along Steve's left arm, and Steve watched as a little crease appeared between Bucky's brows.

“Didn't know you had a tattoo,” Bucky muttered quietly, hand stopping by Steve's shoulder.

Steve already knew what he was looking at, but he found himself glancing down as well. His tattoo was nothing more than a simple cartoon wing in black and white, the symbol he had drawn out during a night with his unit. Had they been alive, they would have gotten it tattooed on their shoulders as well, a promise they had made each other before the mission that ended their lives and Steve's army career.

When Steve met Bucky's eye again, there was a silent question on Bucky's face. “'s my unit,” Steve explained shortly and simply, a quick shrug accompanying his words.

Bucky didn't push it further. He only looked at him for a moment, waiting for him to continue, and when Steve didn't, Bucky leaned in and kissed him so sweetly, that Steve felt like he was going to melt right through the floor.

“Your turn,” Steve let out in a breath once they parted again, his one hand slowly moving up Bucky's back under his ( _Steve's_ , because Bucky, the little shit, still refused to wear his own) shirt. “Shirt off, Buck.”

Bucky seemed to suddenly tense in Steve's arms, and Steve immediately stopped his hand from going further up under his shirt. He was just about to take it back, was just about to tell Bucky that they could stop if he wanted, but then Bucky stepped back and took his shirt off, letting it fall from his hand and leaving his torso bare.

It didn't occur to Steve until right then, that this was the first time he had really seen Bucky's arm.

It was like it was welded to him, the skin red and angry and scarred where it became metal. Pink scars ran along Bucky's whole left side, fading out into white and tan skin when they came close to his hipbone. Steve's heart sank at the sight of it, knowing full well that the arm had been forced onto him and Bucky hadn't had a say in it.

Steve dragged his eyes away from the arm and the scars, however, when he noticed Bucky frowning down at his feet and shifting uncomfortably. Instead, he took in the toned muscles of Bucky's chest, the flat stomach, and Steve could feel himself swell in his pants all over again.

“You're gorgeous,” he finally said, his voice lowered and soft and honest.

Bucky slowly met his gaze, frown stuck on his lips as he lifted his left hand and wiggled the digits. “Even with this?” he croaked out.

“Yes,” Steve said instantly and honestly, taking a step closer. “All of you is gorgeous.”

“It's a murder weapon, Stevie,” Bucky told him, voice lowered into a mutter.

Steve shook his head, stepped closer, and said, “It's not.”

“It is,” Bucky insisted. “They made it-”

“I don't give a flying fuck what they made it to be,” Steve interrupted, reaching up to grab Bucky's chin and making him look at him. “The way you pet Atticus and hold things and touch things and touch _me_ with _your_ hand? That ain't a murder weapon. That's not any kinda weapon, that's just a hand. And you're beautiful, Buck.”

Bucky stared at him, eyes flickering between Steve's, and Steve stood quietly and waited. He didn't know for what, but they didn't need to rush this. They had all the time in the world, the two of them.

“Kiss me,” Bucky whispered, and Steve did exactly that, hugging Bucky close to him as their lips met.

They kept kissing, touching, while Steve walked them over toward the bed, holding onto Bucky's hips. With a gentle shove, he pushed Bucky down onto the bed and immediately crawled over him, swallowing up the chuckle that left Bucky by kissing him deeply.

They wiggled and wrestled around, tried to get comfortable but both refusing to stop kissing for even a second. Bucky ended up with his head on the pillows and Steve loomed over him, settling himself between Bucky's spread legs and grinding down lazily onto him.

“Please tell me you've got lube,” Bucky gasped against his lips, his left hand moving down to unzip Steve's pants while his right went into his hair and pulled.

“I'm a thirty-one year old bisexual man,” Steve responded, kissing down Bucky's neck and letting him undo his pants. “Of course I've got lube.” Bedside table, second drawer. Not that he'd used it much lately, but it was there.

“Good,” Bucky said and kissed him, tugging at Steve's undone pants. “'Cause I want you to fuck me.”

Steve sucked in a deep breath, closing his eyes for a brief moment to collect himself. “I've got no condoms,” he said, regretful.

Bucky lifted himself up off the pillows just a little to kiss his jaw, and he hummed. “I don't care,” he whispered huskily, lips brushing against the beard as he spoke.

“What?” Steve pulled back and looked down at Bucky, his brows furrowed. “Bucky, I'm not sticking my dick in your ass without a condom.”

Bucky blinked up at him, then frowned. “Why not?”

“Because you don't know that I'm clean,” Steve told him slowly. “And I don't know if you are either.”

“I trust you,” Bucky said, reaching up to cup his cheek. He was silent for a moment, before he added, “And last time I checked, I'm clean.”

“No offense, but a little over a month ago, you didn't even remember your own name.”

Bucky scoffed at him and rolled his eyes, dropping his hand from Steve's face.

“And you shouldn't just blindly trust someone,” Steve continued. “Not about this.”

“I'm not blindly trusting just anyone,” Bucky said, meeting his eye. “I'm trusting _you_.”

Steve looked at him, saw the naked trust displayed on Bucky's face, and he couldn't help but lean down and kiss him passionately. Bucky moaned against his lips and kissed him back immediately, lifting his hips to grind against him lazily in a silent plea.

“I'm still not sticking my dick in your ass without a condom,” Steve told him in a whisper when they parted again.

Bucky sighed heavily and threw himself back onto the bed with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Fine,” he sighed, throwing his arms out. “Then we can just fuck another day, I guess.”

“Well,” Steve drawled, a glint in his eye as he started tugging down Bucky's sweatpants. “Good thing there are plenty more ways to get off than just sticking a dick in your ass.”

Bucky's laughter was the most beautiful sound Steve had ever heard. It left him feeling warm, left him smiling and happy, his heart aching and soaring, and Steve would give his everything to hear it as often as he could possibly manage. To hear that soft chuckle and that gorgeous laughter, over and over again.

Bucky moaning his name as he came over his own stomach with Steve's hand wrapped around his cock and Steve's lips kissing along his chest, his beard scratching the toned skin into a pretty pink, was a close second, the sight of him so beautiful that Steve was certain he was in heaven; a place he didn't deserve to be.

However, Steve let himself be a selfish man in that moment, allowed himself to have something good just this one. He took and took and savored this little good that had found its way into his life. Good things never lasted long, but Steve would fight with everything he had for this one.

  
  


_**day forty–two** _

  
  


The condoms were staring at him, and Steve was staring back. He wasn't entirely sure for how long he had been having a staring contest with them, but it was long enough for his palms to sweat and for Daisy to nudge at him in worry that he was dissociating again.

He wasn't, though. He was just trying to decide whether he should buy them now, while Sam was no more than a few feet away dumping toilet paper into their shared cart, or if he should wait until he went grocery shopping by himself, so he could save himself from the embarrassment of Sam knowing.

Which could be ages from now, because he so rarely went by himself.

Ages he knew neither he nor Bucky were willing to wait for.

Taking in a deep breath and holding it in, Steve reached out to snatch a pack of condoms and dumped them into the cart without a comment.

Sam turned and looked at him with a questioning brow raised, but Steve just averted his eyes and ignored his pounding heart and his own flushed face. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sam look into the cart, then back at him, then back into the cart, and then at him again, this time with a wide and toothy grin spreading across his face.

“And you said he wasn't your boyfriend,” Sam said and teasingly nudged at him.

Steve scoffed and muttered, “Shut up.”

Sam teased him about it throughout their entire shopping trip, and Steve flipped him off as he hopped into his pickup truck and drove off, leaving a cackling Sam behind.

  
  


– – –

  
  


Bucky was reading a book when Steve returned home. It was one of the many books that Natasha, Clint, and Peggy had given him over the years and had tried to make him read, but Steve had just never gotten around to it. At least now, with Bucky rediscovering himself and his love for stories and everything geeky, the books had a purpose for something other than collecting dust and looking aesthetically pleasing in the house.

Bucky was sat cross-legged on the couch, book held up in front of him with his left hand and a small crease between his brows and his lips moving ever so slightly as he read. Steve smiled fondly at him as he watched him from the doorway, heart swelling with something that could only be love.

There's an Irish saying that goes something like, “ _Tá mo chroí istigh ionat_ ” and means, “ _My heart is in you_.” It's a nice way of saying I love you to someone, something Steve's mom had taught him back when he was younger and learned about his Irish roots. Steve felt like it was an appropriate saying for how he felt toward Bucky.

He wasn't going to say it out loud, though. Not yet. Bucky already had his heart, but Steve wasn't ready to tell him.

Steve was pulled out of his thoughts, when Bucky grunted quietly and turned to a new page. He shifted where he stood and looked down at the pack of condoms in his hand, his heartbeat picking up as nerves started spreading once more, a blush rising to his cheeks.

He swallowed thickly and took in a deep breath, before he marched into the living room and stopped in front of the coffee table, facing Bucky. Without a word, he slapped the pack down onto the table and held his breath, eyes watching Bucky carefully.

There was a beat of silence and stillness that felt like forever for Steve, before Bucky slowly lowered the book, looking at Steve for a brief moment, and then looked down at the pack laying unceremoniously on the table in front of him.

Barely a second passed, then Bucky tossed the book aside carelessly, flew up from the couch, and rounded the table to throw himself at Steve.

This, Steve thought as he slid into Bucky with a choked off moan and Bucky moaned his name and looked at him with an overwhelming amount of affection – this was worth living for.

_Bucky_ was worth living for.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rebloggable post on [tumblr](http://hoechlbutt.tumblr.com/post/156986881653).
> 
> Kudos and comments give me life. <3


	10. PAIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence and a (non-descriptive) panic attack.

_**day forty–six** _

  
  


Steve woke up to the feeling of soft lips peppering butterfly kisses along his chest, rough stubble dragging across his pale skin, and a warm hand caressing down his side. Slowly, he blinked his eyes open, took in a deep breath, and shifted under the by now familiar weight.

“What 're you doin'?” he asked in a mutter, his voice rough from sleeping. He lifted his hand from the mattress of the bed and tangled his fingers in soft, long, brown hair, his breath shuttering a little when he felt a tongue lick a teasing line too close to his nipple.

“Mm, revenge for all of the beard burns on me,” Bucky replied huskily. Steve didn't need to look to know he was grinning up at him.

“I'll show you revenge,” Steve threatened and flipped them over before Bucky could say or do anything other than grin widely and chuckle.

Steve ate him out until Bucky was nothing but a moaning and incoherent mess, coming over himself with a shout and Steve's tongue and fingers buried in his ass.

  
  


_3:46 pm_

  
  


There was a pleasant silence in the house, that didn't use to be there before. Before everything – before Bucky broke into his barn, before Steve took him in, before there was another person living under his roof – the house had always been silent, unpleasantly and uncomfortably so.

Daisy and Atticus made him feel a little less lonely in a house this big. But there was something about having a whole other person, a human being, living with him that made the silent much more comfortable. There was something about another person shuffling around the house and doing his own thing, that made Steve feel a little less alone and lonely that his dogs just couldn't do.

There was something incredibly pleasant about the distant sound of Bucky walking around the house and flopping down on the couch to read a book and grunt low to himself whenever something in the story displeased him. There was something comforting about hearing the television turn on, and Bucky flicking through the few channels he had before finally settling on something (usually a documentary of some kind).

There was something comforting in being out on the farm all day, and then coming back inside to the sound of Bucky doing something on his own, no matter if that was reading a book or snooping around the place or taking a nap and snoring softly upstairs or, like now, stretched out on the couch with a book in his hand and quietly humming every time he flipped to a new page and-

Steve was abruptly pulled out of his thoughts of the quiet, when he heard the distant sound of a familiar barking. He looked up from the handful of vegetables he was cleaning in the sink and looked out the window, eyes immediately finding Atticus in the field.

Atticus was barking loudly, tail raised (not wagging, just raised in alert) and his ears were flat against his head. He was facing the dirt road leading up to the house, slowly stepping forward as he continued barking.

Daisy heard him too, it would seem, because she got to her feet and was by Steve's side in a second, whining.

Frowning in confusion, Steve grabbed the edge of the kitchen sink and leaned forward to look out through the window. He found the car quickly; black, sleek, windows tinted and license plate covered by the crops and high grass of the field. He didn't recognize it, and no one but his friends ever came to visit.

He wouldn't have questioned it much if someone he didn't know had come to visit unannounced two months ago, but now... well, he knew better.

Heart in his throat, Steve quickly wiped his hands on a nearby towel and then stormed out of the kitchen and headed for the living room, Daisy rushing after him. Bucky was still laying stretched out on the couch there, left hand holding a book open and right hand behind his head to pillow it against the arm of the couch.

The book, however, lowered quickly when Steve came storming in, and Bucky's previously relaxed facial expression shifted into a hard one, that Steve knew was because of his own.

“Steve?” Bucky started while sitting up a little, but Steve interrupted him before he could finish his question.

“Hide,” he said, shooting a glance out the living room window to see the car come to a park by the front of the house.

Bucky sat up, book abandoned on the coffee table, and looked at him wide eyed. “Why?”

“Because I don't recognize the car outside,” Steve told him, and Bucky got to his feet. “There's a closet under the stairs. Go there. There's a locker with a gun, the code is 040686. If you think you need it to protect yourself, take it.”

“Steve,” Bucky started again and stepped closer to him, but he didn't get further because then he was interrupted by a series of sharp knocks on the front door and a male voice asking if anyone was home.

“Go,” Steve said- no, _ordered_ and gave Bucky a pleading look. He couldn't lose him too, it would break him. Even if whoever was at the door turned out to be harmless (although he doubted it, because when was he ever that lucky?) he couldn't risk it. Not with Hydra still out there somewhere, looking for Bucky.

And if that was Hydra coming knocking on his door, he wasn't going to let them take Bucky. Over his dead body.

When Bucky didn't move and just glared at him, Steve reached out for his hand and begged, “Buck, please.”

Bucky looked at him in silence for a minute, the knocking came again and harder this time. The visitor sounded impatient when he called out, this time. Bucky stared at him, his face hardening, but he gave a jerky and quick nod as he stepped forward and grabbed Steve's face. Steve didn't even get to think about returning the kiss that Bucky pressed to his lips before it was over, and when they parted, Bucky gave him a hard and stern look.

“I'm gonna kick your ass if you do something stupid and reckless,” Bucky told him, voice tight.

“Good thing you're taking all the stupid with you, huh?” Steve said, his joke falling flat and only earning him a stronger glare.

Bucky huffed at him but he said nothing and silently left in the direction of the stairs. Steve looked after him for only a brief moment, before there were more knocking on the front door, the knocks only becoming more forceful. He took in a deep and calming breath, willing his heart to calm down, and then he headed toward the front door, Daisy closely behind him.

The second the door was open and the unknown visitor was revealed, Steve knew he had done the right thing to tell Bucky to hide. Not because he was necessarily sure this guy was Hydra, but the way he smiled and looked at him and the general atmosphere of him made Steve want to fight him.

The guy hadn't even said a single word, he just gave off that vibe.

Steve could see Atticus watching them from the field, ears perked and tail raised. He wasn't barking anymore, and Daisy wasn't growling behind him. She was quiet, but Steve knew she was tensing up and preparing to protect him.

Looked like Steve wasn't the only one this visitor creeped out.

“Can I help you?” Steve asked the visitor, holding a hand out behind him to silently tell Daisy to sit down and stay put. She did, after stepping closely up to him.

“Agent Rumlow with Shield,” the man said with an obviously faked smile, holding up a badge. Steve didn't bother giving it a single glance. Natasha didn't talk much about her work, but this guy didn't look like any of the Shield agents she'd ever introduced him to. That, and she would have told him if she was sending someone. “You got a few minutes to spare for a little chat?”

“About what?” Steve asked, not budging from the door when Rumlow took a step forward.

Rumlow slipped his badge back into his pocket, his smile fading a little when Steve didn't immediately invite him inside. He said, “I'll be blunt. We've got a rogue assassin on the loose. He was last seen a few miles from here, and I'm wondering if maybe you've seen anything suspicious lately.”

“Only you,” Steve wanted to say, but he bit back the words when the urge came over him. Instead, he pretended to think, then shook his head and gave Rumlow an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” he said with a shrug. “It's only been me and a few friends out here for years. Not a lot of people come this far out for no reason.”

Rumlow hummed quietly in response, and Steve really wanted to punch him. The smile on his face was unnerving, and Steve didn't like it one bit. But, he clenched his fists and counted to ten in his head.

“You mind if I mind come in?” Rumlow asked after a beat.

Steve considered him for a moment. He did mind it, but he nodded and pulled the door open the rest of the way anyway, letting Rumlow walk inside. “You want anything to drink?” he asked as he closed the door behind them. The guy may give off a dirtbag vibe and the guy may be Hydra, but Steve did have some manners left.

Until his suspicions were proven right, that was.

“I'm good,” Rumlow said. He looked around briefly, before he turned to Daisy, who was stood closely to Steve's side with her tail completely still and ears perked, and pointed at her. “Nice dog.”

“Thanks,” Steve said. “She's working,” she wasn't but he didn't want this guy touching her, “so you can't pet her, sorry.”

Rumlow snorted and said, “Wasn't going to, either. I'm not exactly a dog person.”

Steve smiled tightly at him. He bit back any smartass comments ( _Don't give yourself away, Steve. Bucky needs you not to_ , he told himself) and instead led Rumlow into the living room. Rumlow sat down on the couch, spreading himself out like he owned the place, and Steve sat on the armchair opposite him. Daisy sat down beside him, and he placed a hand on her back.

“So, what else can I do for you, agent?” he asked casually, keeping the tight smile on his lips.

“Well,” Rumlow said and reached into his pocket, pulling out a picture. He leaned forward, placed it on the coffee table between them, and slid it over toward him. “Does this guy look familiar?”

Steve had a feeling he already knew the answer to that. And when he dropped his gaze down to the picture slid over to him, he was proven right.

Bucky looked so young in the picture, hair short and military cut and jaw clean-shaven. He was in uniform, standing at attention with a hint of a smile in his eyes and with the one corner of his lips curling back just a little. He looked so young and free from the horror that Hydra had put him through, and Steve's heart broke.

But he did his best to conceal it with a short shrug and a shake of his head. “Can't say that he does,” he told Rumlow, hoping that he, just this once, could be able to pull of a lie. He always was such a terrible liar, but he needed to be a good one now. “Why, is he that rogue assassin you're looking for?”

“He is,” Rumlow said, smile gone and eyes narrowed the tiniest bit. “Are you sure you've never seen him before?”

Steve took a minute to study the picture again, taking in the little cleft in Bucky's chin and the lack of bags under his eyes and the fullness of his lips. But again, he shook his head when he looked back at Rumlow, trying his very best to keep his face carefully blank and ignoring his pounding heart.

“Positive,” he lied. “Sorry.”

Rumlow said nothing. Steve stared right back at him, stared right back into the cold eyes watching him intently, and he felt his own hands slowly curl into fists. Daisy shifted closer to him, and he quietly grabbed her collar to keep her back. He didn't want to be the one to start a fight. If he could, he would avoid one.

(Even though he really, really wanted to fight this guy.

There was no doubting it; Rumlow was Hydra.)

Steve never was a good liar, and he knew Rumlow saw right through his terrible lie. He knew, because the guy shifted forward on the couch and a wide grin slowly curled his lips back. Rumlow had dropped all pretense, and Steve did the same, his face going hard and fists clenching tighter.

“I think you're lying,” Rumlow said.

“And I think you don't work for Shield,” Steve retorted as calmly as he could, despite every nerve in his body screaming at him to stand and take this guy out. He needed to text Natasha for help, needed to do the one thing she had ordered him to do if something like this happened.

But his phone was charging in the kitchen, and Rumlow looked ready to pounce on him, left hand curled into a fist and right hand behind him. Probably reaching for the gun Steve knew he had stuffed into his belt. A knife seemed more likely, maybe.

“Steve.”

Steve whirled his head to the right at the sound of a familiar voice. Bucky was standing in the doorway to the living room, face pale and hard and eyes glaring and locked onto Rumlow. His hands were curled into tight fists, the metal one whirring quietly as the plates shifted under the pressure.

He looked like he'd seen a monster, which probably wasn't far from the truth, and Steve shot up from his seat at the same time Rumlow did.

“Steve,” Bucky repeated in the same tight voice as before. “He's Hydra.”

With his eyes glued to Rumlow and his smug and evil grin, Steve moved over to stand in front of Bucky, putting himself between them while glaring right back at Rumlow. Daisy moved with him, growling at Rumlow and looking ready to attack.

“Daisy,” Steve said firmly. “Go to Bucky.”

“I have been looking all over for you, Soldat,” Rumlow said, taking a step forward and pulling his hand back into view. A knife twirled between his fingers, the blade catching the sunlight from the window.

Steve stepped forward as well, shielding Bucky. “Daisy, go,” he repeated firmly, when she only moved with him. She still didn't move. “Bucky, take her with you to the kitchen,” he told Bucky instead, not meaning it to come out like an order but he couldn't help it. “Grab my phone and text Nat.”

“Steve,” Bucky started, his voice still tight and now angry, but Steve cut him off.

“Go!” he ordered loudly and firmly. He didn't see because he was watching Rumlow's every little move, but he heard Bucky huff quietly behind him, heard Daisy's collar being grabbed, and heard them both leaving the living room a moment later.

Good. As long as they were safe, Steve could handle this.

“There are no prisoners with Hydra,” Rumlow started in a growly voice, slowly shifting forward.

“Really?” Steve interrupted, not in the mood for a ridiculous and villainous speech from this jackass. “Because I'm pretty sure you kept Bucky prisoner for six years. Or was that just a misunderstanding?”

“The Asset did everything voluntarily,” Rumlow told him, and Steve scoffed at him.

“Right,” he said, taking a step back when Rumlow stepped forward. “After months of torture and brainwashing.”

Rumlow shrugged and said, “There may have been a little bit of persuasion involved.”

Steve glared at him, heated and angry, his fists clenching by his sides. “Are we gonna fight, or do you have any other asshole remarks you wanna get out first?”

Rumlow's response came with him lunging forward and thrusting the knife at him, the smug and evil grin gone from his face and replaced by a furious expression. Steve reacted on instinct and reached out for the nearest thing he could use to block the attack; the round lamp table next to an armchair, the lamp falling and shattering on the floor as he raised it to block the knife Rumlow stabbed at him with.

The knife pierced through the thick wood of the table, and Steve nearly lost his footing when Rumlow threw his weight at him. But he pushed back, send Rumlow tumbling backwards and nearly tripping over the coffee table, and Steve moved forward.

For years and years, Steve had swallowed back the anger and sorrow and grief, had let it all become pent-up because he didn't want to lose his temper. He didn't want to accidentally hurt someone he cared about, didn't want to take his anger for the world and the universe out on someone who didn't deserve it.

His therapist, back when he actually bothered going to one, had told him that boxing would help. She'd told him that taking a few rounds out on a sandbag could do wonders for his mental health, and he had ignored her.

He had taken his anger out on walls, bruised his knuckles and almost breaking his own wrists. He had done that, until he had become a farmer and started working himself into exhaustion every single day, so he wouldn't have the energy to feel anger anymore.

It had worked, and he hadn't taken it out on anyone innocent.

Rumlow wasn't innocent. Rumlow was Hydra, and Rumlow was trying to take someone Steve cared so deeply for, someone he _loved_ , away from him, and Steve wasn't going to let that happen. If that meant letting all that pent-up anger out on Rumlow, then so be it.

And Steve let it all out. With every punch and every kick and every shove, he let it out.

With one final and strong punch to Rumlow's jaw, Rumlow tumbled backward and fell to the floor with a heavy _thud_. He wasn't moving, wasn't saying a peep. He was laying there, a beat up and knocked out mess, and Steve had never felt better about anything before.

He blinked a few times, slowly coming back to reality. His knuckles were bruised and red and covered with Rumlow's blood. For a split second, he expected to freak out, expected this to be a trigger that would send him panicking and render him useless in protecting Bucky.

But no, he wasn't having flashbacks. He wasn't trembling, he was breathing (heavily, panting) and calm. Maybe too calm, only building for a panic attack and a freak out later. But that was for the future. For now, Steve focused on Rumlow and bound his ankles and wrists with whatever he could find, just in case the asshole decided to wake up.

The living room was a mess, Steve noted when he finally looked around. It was a mess of broken tables and shattered lamps (plural, there had been two other causalities during the fight) and Steve couldn't be bothered checking the rest out, because he had more important things to worry about.

He found Bucky in the kitchen, sitting on the floor behind the island with his legs drawn up to his chest and his head ducked down into his hands. He was trembling, and Daisy was whining pitifully next to him, desperately trying to nudge him back from what was undoubtedly a panic attack.

“Bucky!” Steve called out as he rushed to him, dropping to his knees in front of him and ignoring how painful that was. He didn't touch him, didn't even reach out, he merely repeated himself. “Bucky, can you hear me?”

Bucky didn't answer, only whimpered and curled further in on himself.

“Bucky,” Steve repeated once more, firmly but softly. “We're okay. We're okay, I promise. Nothing's gonna hurt you, we're okay.”

Bucky trembled and shook his head, a noise that could have been a harsh _no_ coming out in a choked whimper.

“Yes,” Steve said, letting out a breath to calm himself down. Bucky needed him to. “Bucky, we're okay. Look at me.”

It took a long, long minute before Bucky slowly raised his head from his hands and looked at him. He looked horrible, pale and shaken and trembling. Steve wanted to pull him into a protective hold, but he didn't.

Partly because Bucky may not be okay with being touched at the moment, and partly because he might be scared of _Steve_.

Steve couldn't bear the thought of that, so he tried not to dwell on it for too long.

“Look at me,” he repeated softly. “Deep breaths. We're okay. You're safe, I promise.”

Bucky took in several shuttering breaths, over and over and over again. It took a while, minutes and minutes passing by, before he seemed to calm down a little. Enough to not be trembling anymore, at least. Daisy shuffled closer to him with a whine, leaning in to comfort him, but it only made him tense up, so she pulled away and instead moved over toward Steve.

Steve didn't touch her, but he didn't lean away from her when she leaned into him either. He couldn't deny that he probably did need her to anchor him.

“Did you kill him?” Bucky asked in a tight and small voice a minute later, eyes glued to the ground between them.

Steve shook his head and said, “No. Only knocked him out.” He paused for a brief second. “He won't hurt you or take you back there, I promise you that. I'm not gonna let them take you away, Buck. You hear me? Over my dead body.”

There was a beat of silence, then Bucky whispered, “Maybe you should.”

Steve stopped breathing. “What?”

“Don't you get it?” Bucky looked up at him, eyes shiny with tears, brows pinched together and hanging low, jaw clenched. “They're never gonna stop coming for me. They'll keep coming, over and over again, until I'm either dead or they've got me again. So maybe you should just... let them take me or kill me or whatever. It'll be easier.”

Steve stared at him.

_Count to ten..._

_One..._

_Two..._

_Three..._

_Fo–_

“I don't give a shit, Bucky,” he said, voice firm and tone angry. “If you think there's even the slightest chance of any of that happening, then you're wrong. They could send a whole fucking army, and I'd do everything I could to protect you and fight for you. Because I'm with you 'til the end of the line, and I won't let anything happen to you. I don't care how hard it'll be.”

Bucky looked at him, then sniffled and shook his head. “You're a fuckin' punk,” he told him, voice breaking. “I can't have you get hurt 'cause of me, Stevie. I can't–“

“Hey,” Steve interrupted. “I was a captain in the army, Buck. I've got Natasha, a special agent, and Sam and Clint, both former soldiers, on my side. I've got Daisy and Atticus, both trained to protect. Hydra won't hurt me, and they won't hurt you. I won't let them. Do you understand me?”

Bucky looked away, eyes going back to the floor. Steve could tell he was seconds from breaking, felt his own heart break for him.

“I don't know if I'm worth all this, Steve,” Bucky said in a small and broken voice.

“Can I touch you?” Steve asked after a beat, his own voice tight.

Bucky shook his head, pulling his legs closer to himself and curling further in on himself.

“Okay,” Steve said softly. “Then I need you to look at me.”

Bucky did, tentatively.

“You're worth it,” Steve told him, letting himself speak from the heart even though he was deadly afraid to. “You're worth every fight, every hardship, every battle, every broken bone, every heartbreak, everything. I don't care if it's Hydra or nightmares or panic attacks or not putting the dishes in the dishwasher, you're worth it all, Bucky.”

Bucky started shaking his head, so Steve quickly said, “Yes, you are. And if I have to spend the rest of my life reminding you of it, then I will. Because Bucky,” he shifted just a bit closer, but he didn't reach out to touch him, “you're my heart. You're my home. I finally feel like I have a reason to live because of you, and I haven't felt like that in years.”

Bucky slowly lifted his head and looked back at him.

“I will fight heaven and hell and everything in between to protect you,” Steve continued. “And if you leave, then I'll follow you. 'Til the end of the line, Buck. No matter how far that is.”

Bucky stared at him in silence for a long while, and Steve said nothing and just looked back. It took a while, but then Bucky let out a broken sob and reached out for him, and Steve was there in an instant, gathering Bucky in his arms and pulling him into a protective hold.

“I've got you,” Steve whispered as he held him, feeling Bucky shake in his arms and hearing the choked off sobs that came from him. “I've got you, I promise.”

Steve was still holding Bucky in his arms on the kitchen floor, repeating himself over and over again in a soft whisper to reassure Bucky, and Daisy was laying curled around both of them protectively, Atticus barking outside, when Natasha came rushing into the house with several Shield agents following her.

Steve was still holding Bucky in his arms, when Natasha found them and the Shield agents took Rumlow away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh... I'm sorry?
> 
> Rebloggable post on [tumblr](http://hoechlbutt.tumblr.com/post/156986881653).
> 
> Kudos and comments give me life. <3


	11. PEACE

_**day two–hundred–thirty–seven** _

  
  


The cool wind was biting at Steve's cheeks when he stepped back out of the barn, panting slightly and sweating a little from the few hours of hard work he had done; cleaning out the stables for the cows now happily mooing behind him and fixing up his tractor. He tugged one thick and warm glove off of his right hand and ran it across his sweaty forehead, before he tugged down the hat on his head to cover his ears again.

It was mid March and cold as all hell, but not as cold as it had been a month ago when winter had laid a soft and beautiful layer of snow as far as the eye could reach and beyond. Spring had yet to bring the usual warmth with it, but Steve wasn't complaining. He liked the cold weather. Sure, he preferred the warmth of summer, but the lingering cold of winter in the spring wasn't too bad either.

It always made the farm seem so quiet though, which was the only reason he was more than ready for summer or for spring to fully kick in and give him more work to do.

Daisy stretched beside him, mouth dropping open in a long yawn, and Steve smiled down at her. Atticus was rolling around in the smudge that used to be snow somewhere down the dirt driveway, probably getting himself really dirty and in need of yet another thorough wash.

Steve stretched too, his shoulders popping and a satisfied sigh leaving him, before he pushed up the sleeve of his jacket a little and looked at the watch he had wrapped around his wrist. 10:34 am, which meant it was about time to go inside and make breakfast for the lazy ass keeping the left side of his bed warm.

The house was warm and welcoming when he stepped inside, cleaning off his boots on the doormat before stepping out of them and putting them neatly by the rack of shoes and boots. He slipped out of his jacket and hat and gloves and put them away too, then ventured further into the house.

The place was pleasantly quiet, a soft crinkling coming from the fireplace in the living room. Steve had lit a fire in it two hours ago when he had gone back inside to feed the dogs, wanting to keep the house warm. Daisy made a beeline for it after shaking herself briefly. She curled herself up in front of it and promptly fell asleep with a soft harrumph.

Steve only glanced briefly up the stairs and listened to the distant and soft snoring, his heart warming at the sound, before he went into the kitchen, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and got started on breakfast.

He managed to make a stack of three breakfast pancakes and got halfway through the fourth, when he heard soft footsteps make their way down the stairs. A smile pulled at his lips when he heard a muttered curse in a familiar voice followed by a yawn.

A few seconds later, there were arms – one warm and real, another slightly cooler and metal – wrapping around his waist and a heavy weight against his back, as Bucky leaned against him, most likely still half asleep.

“Morning, Buck,” Steve said, smile only widening when there was a long and tired groan from behind him.

“I smashed the clock,” Bucky admitted after a beat, his voice lowered to a mutter and rough with sleep.

Steve stopped cooking, his shoulders slumped, and he sighed heavily while giving the wall in front of him an exasperated look. “Again, seriously?”

Steve's old and vintage alarm clock, the one that had belonged to his mom, had been smashed four months ago. It was an accident, they both knew that, but Bucky had still felt guilty about it for days afterward. The guilt quickly washed away to annoyance, however, when Steve bought a new and modern alarm clock, and the noise was almost worse than the previous one.

So far, Bucky had smashed four of them. He kept insisting they were accidents, but Steve doubted it.

Bucky hummed and tightened his grip on him, burying his face between Steve's shoulder blades.

Steve shook his head and said, “You're expensive, y'know?”

Bucky grunted and mumbled, “You love me.”

There was a beat, then Steve twisted around in Bucky's arms and looked at him. Bucky's hair, only grown longer over time, was put into a messy bun. He was still in his sleep pants but had taken one of Steve's sweaters, and he still looked to be half asleep. Adorable, was what he looked, and Steve couldn't resist. He leaned in to place a soft kiss on his pink lips, while his arms wrapped around him and pulled him closer.

“Yeah,” he agreed in a soft whisper against Bucky's lips. He wasn't afraid to say it, not afraid to tell him, “I do.”

Slowly, a wide and toothy smile pulled at Bucky's lips, and they both leaned in for a kiss at the same time.

James Buchanan Barnes was still officially dead, and Rebecca Barnes Proctor still mourned the loss of her brother. Hydra was still out there, looking for the Asset that ran away from them and undoubtedly looking to take him down or confirming his death because they couldn't risk having him around anymore.

Rumlow paying the Rogers Farm a visit hadn't compromised their position, thank God. Shield agents had roamed the perimeter for weeks after, expecting Hydra to come attack them with an army. But it had been quiet, and Hydra had popped up a few states over instead.

James Buchanan Barnes was still officially dead, and he was going to stay that way until Natasha and her agents took down Hydra for good. She wouldn't tell Steve much of the mission's progress, nor would she tell Bucky, but every time Steve asked, she smiled at him in response. He figured it was going well.

Bucky was still recovering. He had good days, he had bad days. There were still gaps in his memory, but he was slowly starting to remember more and more every day. Sometimes it was good, sometimes it was bad, sometimes it was horrible.

The first time he remembered a time where he had killed someone, ordered by Hydra to take another person's life, Bucky had thrown up in the kitchen sink and cried himself into exhaustion after locking himself in his room for hours. He wouldn't talk about it, _couldn't_ talk about it without breaking all over again, but he hadn't pushed Steve away when he had gathered him in his arms and held him close either.

Bucky still had a long way to go, but he was getting there. Little by little, he was getting there.

Steve was slowly getting better, too. Over the last several months, he had picked up art again. Nothing more than a few doodles and half-assed sketches of Bucky or Daisy or Atticus, sometimes of Sam or Clint or Natasha, occasionally of Peggy or Angie, mostly just inanimate objects. Nothing too fancy and nothing ever got finished because he never could, but Bucky smiled at him every time he picked up a pen and doodled something, even if it was just a few circles in the corner of the grocery list.

It was only a month ago, that Steve had rolled his mom's motorcycle out of the shed and put it out front, intended to start riding it again. He hadn't, not yet. Bucky kept trying to get him to, kept encouraging him, as did Sam. But every time Steve sat on it, determined to take it for a joy ride just down the dirt road and around the farm, he thought of his mom and his unit and felt guilt wash over him all over again.

Every time, he climbed off and stormed back inside. Every single time. And Bucky held him and told him, “Next time, maybe.”

All Steve could do was nod and let himself be held.

The Shed Of Shame continued to be stuffed full, Steve's ghosts hidden away, but the motorcycle wasn't put back in. It stood proudly outside the farm, to be ridden and used again when Steve was ready for it.

The farm grew, too. In the back, among the other crops, grew a tree. Sam had helped Steve plant it, all the while teasing him relentlessly and leaving Steve flushing and cursing at his best friend. The tree hadn't fully grown yet and wouldn't bloom until summer came around, but when it did, fresh plums would poke out between the leaves.

Bucky had taken a liken to plums after Clint and Natasha had shown up with a bag of them, and Steve was going to grow him as many as he could eat and then some.

They both still had a long way to go, but the were getting there. Little by little, side by side.

“You're gonna burn my breakfast,” Bucky told him in a mutter back in the present.

Steve hummed against his lips, kissing him deeply for a brief moment. “That sounds like your problem,” he responded. “Could just make your own breakfast,” another kiss, his one hand slowly sliding down Bucky's back, “or stop distracting me.”

Bucky made a face at him, and Steve kissed his pouty lips. “I'm not liking either of those options,” Bucky said with a huff, leaning heavily against him. “But I am liking your kisses, so,” he trailed off and puckered his lips, making a kissy face at him and silently and childishly begging for more kisses.

Steve snorted at him, patted him briefly on the ass, and pushed him away. “Go sit and you'll get your breakfast in a minute,” he said. He planted a sweet kiss on Bucky's forehead, letting his lips linger there for a second, before he turned around and went back to the pancakes.

The kitchen was pleasantly silent while he made two more, stacking them neatly and starting on a last, but he paused and looked over his shoulder when he heard the unmistakable sound of a fake camera shutter.

Bucky was sitting on his stool by the island, elbows resting on the surface and the phone Natasha had given him (Shield customized with an emergency button in case Hydra came back, and the cover full of little cartoon cats thanks to Sam and Clint) in his hands and held up in front of his face.

Steve smiled fondly at him, not minding Bucky taking a picture of him.

He'd been doing that a lot; taking pictures. “'s so I've still got memories somewhere if I forget again,” he'd told Steve one night after taking a picture of his own feet propped up in Steve's lap, Steve's fingers massaging them gently and carefully.

In fear of losing the pictures he'd taken, Natasha had suggested he uploaded them to instagram. Sam had suggested twitter, while Clint had told him tumblr was the place to be. Ultimately, he had listened to them all and made one of each; tumblr mostly for the animals and various other things that he liked to show Steve in the middle of the night when neither of them could sleep, twitter only for Sam (mostly to torment him, if what Steve had heard was anything to go by. How, he didn't know and he wasn't going to ask), and instagram for his memory pictures.

Natasha had helped him set it up, but Clint had grabbed the phone from both of them and picked out the username before anyone could object. Steve still rolled his eyes every time he saw it, because it was ridiculous. But Bucky had laughed for a full two minutes and still snickered whenever he saw it, so Steve didn't say anything about it.

… Well, he tried not to but occasionally it just slipped out.

(Sam, however – Sam didn't hold back on telling both Bucky and Clint how stupid it was. And every single time, Clint laughed loudly and Bucky snickered.)

Because of Hydra still being after him, there were never pictures of Bucky himself; never any part of his own face or anything to identify him with. Steve's face was carefully kept out of frame or out of focus too, and the pictures of him were plentiful.

Actually, there were mostly just pictures of Steve. Atticus and Daisy and sometimes pieces of the farm, occasionally of Clint and Sam and Natasha, but Steve mostly.

The best and most liked picture was one that Steve had taken one night. It was of the two of them pressed close together on the couch in the living room, their faces cut out to just Bucky's chin and Steve's crooked smile, Steve's free hand holding Bucky's hair out of frame. In the picture, Atticus was sitting next to Bucky and looking at the camera with his ears perked and a curious tilt of his head and Daisy was with her head in Steve's lap.

There was only one word in the description of the picture, and when Bucky had shown it to Steve, Steve had grabbed his face and kissed him stupid.

Home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it - the end. Thank you so much to everyone who left kudos and/or commented. This fic got an overwhelming amount of love, and every single comment (and every single reader) means a lot to me. <3
> 
> Rebloggable post on [tumblr](http://hoechlbutt.tumblr.com/post/156986881653).
> 
> EDIT [19/02]: Like the giant idiot I am, I forgot to include Bucky's instagram username when I posted this chapter. Oops, my bad. It's summer_civilian lmao.


End file.
